The History of The World
by nezstereo
Summary: After a five year hospitalization due to exstensive injuries inflicted upon her by Sweeney Todd, the man she loved, Mrs. Lovett awakens and swears revenge, only to find the world has changed since she last set foot in it. COMPLETE
1. Prologue: A Bloody Evening

_AN: Well, for those of you who read my other one shot for this category of Sweeney Todd awesomeness, this is gonna be a bit different, because it's a multiple chapter thing, and..._

_It's not quite as serious. You'll read it, and say, "No, it is." _

_But I'm writing this for the laughs, and because...I couldn't resist. _

_If you read the description, chances are you've guessed what this, and if you thought to yourself, "Sounds a bit like Kill Bill", then you're dead on. This is a Sweeney Todd parody of Kill Bill. But, it's all in good taste, I promise you, and you don't need to have seen the movie (in fact, the storyline isn't the same at all, it's simply taking the idea of Kill Bill, you know?)_

_So, it's really more of a tribute._

_I've always loved those movies, and once I saw the movie version of Sweeney Todd, this idea instantly popped in my head. The idea of doing this at all, however, was inspired by the best fanfic I've ever read, "Death Rides a Bicycle" by the author Incanto, which was a Kill Bill parody for an obscure (but hysterical) anime called Excel Saga. Go read it, because it is absolutely amazing. _

_Now, that's not to say this story will be very, very similar to the Kill Bill storyline, because, truthfully, I did change things around a bit. If you get confused, don't worry, because I'll explain anything that seems odd in these handy Author Notes!_

_Note: This fic is based off the 2007 movie version of Sweeney Todd, with Johnny Depp, etc. etc. But it borrows from both musical versions. _

_So...This is the prologue/credits, which will show off the "cast" and...Well._

_Enjoy!_

_I own not the wonderful cinematic adventures that are Sweeney Todd and Kill Bill vol. 1 and 2. Nor do I own Johnny Depp, but boy, if I did..._

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Prologue: A Bloody Evening

If one were to ask Beadle Bamford, head of the constabulary, if he was ever afraid of patrolling the streets at night, he would first straighten the lapels on his coat, and sniff haughtily, as if the very idea was preposterous. But, leaning in, he'd tip his hat, and whisper that yes, he was frightened sometimes, of walking those dark alleys. But it was not the brothels that bothered him, nor was it the opium parlors, or the black market streets. No, he wasn't afraid of those silly places, where common criminals sat in corners, leering at you, daring you to come closer, closer...

The place that frightened him, the great Beadle, was not any of those streets. It was Fleet Street, located in a fairly friendly quarter of London, on a street always bustling with people, lamps blazing and people selling goods.

But something about Fleet Street made the Beadle uneasy. Smoke rose in billowing clouds from a pie shop across the way, like black hands extending from Hell up to the grey sky, wafting an eerie, unpleasant smell up into the air, a metallic scent he could not quite place, but knew was familiar.

He would tell you of the man, lurking in his upstairs shop, a polite man, with good morals and a respect for the law, whose eyes were cold and dark as ice, and whose face was pale as the moon. He'd tell you of the woman, whose face was equally as pale, with hair a deep red, and eyes that glanced upwards toward her tennant's room, longingly.

But, of course, no one would ever ask the Beadle such a question, and on this particular night, a cold January evening, when the lamps were dimming and stars flickered in the sky, he did not wish to describe such odd things, especially since he was charged with patrolling the market quarter this night, which included Fleet Street. Speaking of such abnormal people, and the eerie darkness that loomed over the whole street's buildings and road, when he was faced with walking down it, was not a pleasant thing.

Rounding the corner, he gave a deep sigh, and stepped out onto the cobblestones, slippery from a recent fall of rain, jaw set tightly, eyes wide and alert.

It was when he was halfway down, halfway through with this damned place, when he heard it.

A loud yell, of absolute terror, a man's voice, and then, another man's, deep and full of a fury the Beadle had never heard. It sounded like an animal, almost, a roar of victory. And looking up, he saw, in the large, slanted window above "Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies", a long streak of blood fly against the glass, and the figure of Sweeney Todd. Another yell, and a glint of silver which he could not make out, and he saw, vividly, a man's body, pressed against the window, bleeding from the neck, and Beadle Bamford realized that it was none other than Judge Turpin.

It suddenly became clear, why Mr. Todd's eyes glittered oddly whenever they caught the other's eye passing in the street, or why the man had looked oddly familiar.

"Benjamin Barker!" He whispered, horrified.

Blood, blood, blood, running down that large glass pane, and the Beadle Bamford, head of the constabulary, a man of honor who did all he could to help his friends and neighbors, turned and ran, ran as fast as he ever had, since he was a boy, heart pounding and mind reeling in absolute terror.

He did not blow his whistle in alert, or even try to locate another officer.

The Beadle Bamford went home, and sat up all night, holding his cane in one hand and a pistol in another, drinking gin after gin, breathing heavily.

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Mrs. Lovett heard the noise coming from upstairs, sighing to herself as she bustled nervously about the pie shop, shifting knives and cleavers from one place to the other, willing herself not to cry.

Faintly, she could hear little Toby, pounding on the metal door to the cellar, crying something about letting him out. She knew full well she couldn't do that, risking everything just to be kind to the small boy, but...

He had been good to her, a good worker, and somehow, a comfort to her. She could walk up to him, and ruffle his hair, pulling from him a large smile, and she'd feel better. She'd even like to think of him as a son, but knew that was a bit too much. No, not a son, though he thought of her as a sort of mother, she suspected.

_Anyhow_, she thinks, _no need to linger on that now_. She leaned down, grabbing the bowl of flour from the counter, and dropping it heavily into the wash bin, which needed to be rinsed out someday soon. Maybe...maybe she could convince Toby that it was all for good, and that she'd take care of him, so he didn't have to be afraid. And then, once he'd calmed down and agreed to never tell a soul about this little business, she'd have _him_ do these dishes.

There's more yells from upstairs, and she hears Mr. Todd's heavy boots thumping loud and fast on the wood, running, presumably.

She ponders going upstairs, armed with a knife and frying pan, to help him, because from the sound of it, the poor man isn't having such luck getting the old Judge to give up the fight and die. But she refrains from doing so, if only for the reason that she knows Mr. T, and knows he'd bloody well murder her too, if she even so much as climbed one step while he was up there, killing the man who ruined his life. And she's not too keen to die, not now, anyways.

She gives another heavy sigh, trying her best to ignore all these very distracting noises, and flips an errant strand of hair out of her face.

_It'll all be just smashing, after this, _she thinks, drifting off to her favorite daydream of being married to her beloved Sweeney Todd, living by the sea in comfort. She can almost feel the salt air, and hear the pounding of the ocean waves against the rocks...

And she whirls around, just in time to see a man falling down the stairs outside her shop, bloodied, bruised and scared out of his wits. His graying hair is spattered with blood, and his face is smeared with it, purpled in places where Mr. Todd no doubt hit him hard with the back of his fist. She recognizes him as the Judge, but it's only from his polished and expensive shoes that she knows it's him, for his face is too mussed to see any features. Getting up rather quickly from his place on the stairs, he limps off into the street, yelling at the top of his lungs, blood running down his mouth. He sounds unrecognizable, rasping and choking, and she imagines it's probably due to the puncture in his throat, which is also gushing the red stuff, staining his cravat and nice suit.

Pounding boots on the stairs, quick as anything, tell her that her Mr. Todd has not given up on this prey yet, and her heart gives a jolt of fear. If he's seen...

Grabbing her rolling pin, she opens the shop door, barely hearing the bell give its familiar jingle, and walks straight up behind the Judge, and hitting him hard over the head. There's a sickening crunch as the wood makes contact, and she's reminded of the bodies sliding swiftly down to the cellar below, landing right on their heads. The man crumples easily, already weakened and slowed by his wounded leg, which she now sees is dripping blood as well. Footsteps behind Mrs. Lovett tell her that Sweeney Todd is now almost at equal distance from the Judge's body. Turning, she gives him her best disapproving look.

"Mr. T..."

He's covered in the stuff, red all over his face and shoulder, his head bleeding from a heavy blow that she imagines is what helped the filthy Judge to escape. Fury's in his eyes, a wild look on his face as he advances, and quickly, she puts her hands on his chest, whispering soothingly.

"Now, now, Mr. T...'E's knocked out now, you'll be able to kill 'im still. Shh, we can't have him killed out here. Where are we, Mr. Todd? You have any idea at all?"

He's breathing fast under her touch, angry, but she's making sense. He rasps: "Outside. In th' street."

Nodding, she smiles. "Good, now, we don't want to get caught now, do we? So let's give me a hand 'ere with the brute's body an' we'll see to waiting til he wakes up, alright?"

His face twists into a pained expression, like a young boy who's being pulled away from his game at the last moment, ruining the victory, but his common sense (what's left of it, anyways) finally gets the better of him, and he nods slowly, crouching and roughly grabbing the man's shoulders, and dragging him into the shop, a trail of blood running behind.

The door is left open as the two of them, conspirators, sometimes companions, two ghosts with evil trailing them, the pair of them walk downstairs into the cellar, shouldering the heavy Judge's body, saying nothing.

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Upstairs, Anthony is leaving his beloved Johanna to stay in the barbershop until he returns. She's speaking of nightmares, and he cups her face in his hands, kissing her gently and soothing her fears. But as soon as he leaves, she's got this feeling, like she's been here before, like...maybe, once, this was home. She's suddenly afraid to leave, to run away from this familiar feeling of belonging, but she knows she can't stay, or the ghosts will catch up. Neither of them notice the stairs are covered with a trail of blood, or that around the barber's chair, there's an already drying pool of red.

Downstairs, in the pie shop, an old beggar woman is singing quietly, a song she's known from somewhere before, but can't place where she's heard it. Running a hand along the threadbare couch, she's overcome with nostalgia. Hadn't she sat in here, every day, mourning her darling, gone away, while that woman...the devil woman, she stood in the corner, not listening...not, not...

Whirling about the room, the woman gives a high, tittering laugh. Oh, the room is full of little birds, and sunlight, and...and...Turning again, she hobbles down the cellar steps, murmuring something about smoke.

_Sign of the devil, sign of the devil._

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Sweeney Todd jerks his arm back, mechanically, as the beggar woman collapses easily on the cellar floor, throat pouring precious rubies, beautiful...He stares at the body, and imagines it's still warm, but doesn't bother checking as he leans down to grab her arms and drag her over to the grinder, but he's stopped by a long, low moan from nearby the oven. Looking up, he sees Mrs. Lovett, clutching the handle of the bakehouse door, knuckles white as she stares like a scared animal at the dead beggar woman. He frowns, suddenly uneasy.

"What is it?" He snaps the question, irritable enough already, too focused on his purpose (killing the Judge, of course) to bother with this silly little episode of his landlady's.

She turns her head, staring at him, mouth open, and then, quick as anything, changes the expression into one of jovial humour. Shaking her head, she nods to the dead woman.

"Nothin'. Just...shocked, is all. I didn't think you'd kill 'er. She's just some old woman, what escaped from bedlam or what have you...That's quite awful, Mr. Todd."

His gaze falls back onto the body at his feet, halfway through a chuckle at this statement. Awful, eh? He opens his mouth to give a reply, and stops.

The mad woman's hair has a shine in the flickering light from the fire, revealing itself to be a golden color. His heart gives a dreadful lurch, and he crouches down, reaching tentatively out to turn her face to the side, brushing hair tenderly out of her eyes, and--

"No."

Noise is roaring in his ears, deafening, as everything he's worked for, everything he's lived his life for, since returning, crashes down around him. She was alive, after all...She took poison, but she was...

He lifts his head, the realization dawning upon him as he stares at Mrs. Lovett, who's biting her lip, still holding that bakehouse door...

"You. You lied to me." His voice suddenly sounds so raw and dry, nothing like the voice he remembers as his own, when he was a barber, and his wife was beautiful...Turning to the blood pool around his Lucy, he catches his reflection. He's shocked to see a vicious looking man, with a shock of black hair, and hate in his eyes. Had he always looked like the dead itself?

"You knew...You knew she lived." He points a finger, accusing, at the woman he had almost considered a friend. Almost considered her worthy enough to build a new life with, after all of this...She shakes her head rapidly, eyes pleading as she backs away slowly, towards the door.

"No, no, no, I never lied, I..."

He ignores her excuses, turning back to his wife. Oh, if only he had spared her one second, if only he had shown mercy. But he was a monster now, wasn't he? Yes, he wasn't Benjamin Barker, out for revenge. He truly was Sweeney Todd now, a man incapable of love or mercy. He hadn't shown hesitation, or even remorse. She was just one dead woman, until he saw...

"Lucy...oh, god..."

Standing, he still can't bear to take his eyes away from her. She's aged, but so has he, and even now, dirty and unkempt, she's lying on her side as if in the untroubled sleep of the angels. She was beautiful.

Behind him, he hears Mrs. Loved, still talking, and he's not listening until she reaches out, touching his shoulder in a way he would'vie once thought almost endearing, but now, turns away from in disgust.

"Yes, I lied, but...I did it because I love you, d'you hear me? I love you! Mr. Todd!"

He says nothing, and hears her give a strangled cry of frustration.

"Benjamin Barker!"

The idea is in his head as quick as she says his old name, brilliant and glorious.

Whirling, he gives her a grin, and opens up his arms.

"_Mrs. Loved, you're a bloody wonder, eminently practical, and yet, appropriate as always, Mrs. Lovett, and as you've said repeatedly, there's little point in dwelling on the past!"_

She steps quickly back, obviously frightened and not fooled at all, but he presses on, knowing she's quick to give into any affection he'll show her. It'll be her downfall. They dance, and he pulls her close, smelling that cheap perfume she always wears, pulling her to him until he can cross both arms around her waist, reaching around to his waist to draw out his razor, all the while spouting silly lies about going to the sea, being happy (How can he ever be happy? But he knows one answer.), and marriage. She's speaking of love and of caring for him, how it was for the best, and suddenly, she leans in, kissing his cheek.

They freeze, and he looks up, clutching the razor behind her back as he continues to smile, and she gives him a look of genuine affection.

"Thank you." She whispers it, hands threading through his hair.

"Yes, well," he beings, pulling the razor up, up, so it's right at her shoulder now, "Life...is for the alive, my dear."

She opens her mouth, looking supremely happy, and ever-so-trusting, to reply to this, and he drives the razor into her shoulder with all the force he can muster.

The hands in his hair go limp with the shock of it, and she gives a quiet gasp, as blood spouts like a gorgeous fountain from her pale skin, running down her dress in little rivers. Mrs. Lovett stumbles back, looking so hurt and in such _pain._

Good, that's excellent, he thinks, as he strides towards her, noise rising to a crescendo in his head, a roar of strings and crashing metal, pushing him to kill her. He wants her to hate him, to hate him, and hurt, hurt so badly she'll want to die, just like he did. Just like him.

_"Now, come here, my love, nothing to fear my love, what's dead is dead!"_

She trips, falling on her back, and he lunges forward, sliver glinting in his hand as he cocks his shoulder back...

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It feels like days, but she's sure it's only been a matter of minutes, and she's got cuts on her arm and shoulder. He's propped her up into a sitting position right against the bakehouse door, and her entire back is exploding in pain as the hot metal makes contact. She curses the day she ever thought buying this low-backed dress would've done her some good, and made him notice her. She refuses to cry, gritting her teeth and hating this stupid man, who's never understood that she'd do anything to make him happy.

He's standing over her, head tilted to the side as he stares at the damage done. Such a bloody fool, what good would it have done, to take care of a woman long past death, poisoned and not right in her brain?

She feels the unfairness, and hates herself for believing he'd ever let her into his arms without taking something away.

_So I suppose I'm going to die._

A strong hand grabs her wounded shoulder roughly, pulling her to her feet briefly before pushing her right back down. The razor in his hand rings metallic as he moves those dexterous fingers and it clicks all the way open, almost like a gun.

She can't breathe well, lying on her back, blood in her mouth running down in her throat and her back, her back _hurts_. He smirks, those deep, black eyes shining like the night sky, victorious.

"You see this, Mrs. Lovett? This...is me at my most sadistic."

She gives a little gasp of pain, tears finally welling up, and she closes her eyes.

_I really did love you, Sweeney Todd._

There is a brief, blindingly intense pain across her throat, and she faints.

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Toby's been running through the sewers for an hour now, panicked and scared out of his wits. There was yelling, and people, people in the grinder...

Breathing a sigh of relief, he spots the grate to the cellar, and sprints across the slimy stone, prying at the rusted metal.

It gives a loud screech as he lifts it, and he freezes momentarily, stomach clenching as he thinks of the finger in the pie, and the foot...the foot in the grinder. He doesn't want to be caught, more than anything.

Deciding it's alright, he grabs the slippery rim of the opening, pulling his small body up and out of the sewers. Despite the horrid smell in the cellar, he feels a rush of relief for his senses as he inhales the scent of cooking flour, and blood.

There's a quiet, choking sob from a corner of the room, and Toby turns, eyes widening in horror at the sight of Mr. Todd's back, spattered in blood, and his wild mane of black hair. His breath catches in a gasp before he can stop it, and the frightening man's head wheels 'round, wild eyes scanning him, sizing him up. Then he stands and Toby sees what he's been kneeling over.

He's never seen a dead body before, or at least, he's never seen the body of anyone he knew.

There's Mrs. Lovett (in his head, he calls her mum, even though he knows she wouldn't like that), blood spattered, eyes closed in pain, throat cut unevenly. Hot tears are coming in his eyes now, and he steps toward the door, glaring angrily at this Mr. Todd, this enemy, a killer.

He's a killer.

Sensing Toby's making to run, the man shakes his head, his face in an expression of absolute grief.

"Toby, boy," he begins, stopping to choke on another sob, "I stopped him, but...the Judge. He thought our dear Mrs. Lovett was me. He killed her. I swear to you, Toby, it was not me who did this."

Even with the fear, Toby is not afraid. He stamps one small foot, and shakes his head.

"No, I don't believe you. You killed 'er, and--"

His gaze travels to the grinder, and gasps to see the old beggar woman, dead, and an unconscious Judge Turpin. And the sight plants a seed of doubt in his mind. What if this mad man, Sweeney Todd, is telling the truth? Mrs. Lovett...she always trusted him, loved him. Maybe he was a good man, who had gone sour. Toby bites his lip.

"That Judge...'e killed 'er, then? Why should I ever believe you're tellin' the truth?"

Sweeney Todd's face becomes as stiff as anything, mouth turning up slightly, in a mournful smile. He steps tentatively closer to Toby, and whispers:

"She is possibly the only woman that could've convinced me to be human again."

It's enough, Toby thinks, gazing at this man, who's like a caged animal. He nods slowly. Besides, he thinks, where else has he to go, and who else to take care of him? He won't breathe a word of the other killings, or this event. Perhaps Mr. Todd may even come to be a sort of friend. He'll try, for her, at least. His almost mother.

"What about him, then? The Judge? You gonna kill 'im?"

There is suddenly a great pounding of fists on glass, and yells from outside. The police..?

Sweeney Todd turns, frowning, and heaves a great sigh. Looking back at Toby, he shakes his head slowly, as if this decision is one he truly regrets.

"No, not now, at least," he says, grabbing his shabby grey coat off the floor and slipping it on his slight frame, "Trust that I will, soon. But now...We've got to get out of London. We've no doubt caused some sort of scene...They will have us hanging tomorrow for this, if we're caught. You need anything from the parlor, run off now, boy, and be quick. Don't let them see you. We're leaving the way you came in."

Toby gives another stiff nod, and then advances past him, to stand at Mrs. Lovett's body. "I...I'm gonna say goodbye. Then we can leave."

The man gives a stiff nod, and then turns away. Toby ignores him for now, kneeling down at her body. He touches her hand, and sniffs.

"I didn't protect you, like I said I would, mum. But...But I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'm gonna try and take of Mr. Todd...I know that's what you would've wanted. Goodbye."

He kisses her forehead gently (like a son), jogging over to Mr. Todd, and jumping back into the sewers.

Looking into the grimy water, he's shocked to find his hair has turned white.

In the cellar, Judge Turpin awakes to a cacophony of footsteps, wheezing and tasting blood. His head feels like it's on fire, and his throat is stinging awfully. Arms grab him, lifting him up stairs, yelling orders. He closes his eyes.

On a boat, headed for Cairo, Anthony and Johanna sit on the deck, holding hands, and the young girl begins to cry. Anthony asks her what's wrong, but she shakes her head. He can't understand; she feels as if she's leaving something very important. Wiping her eyes, she tells him she's just tired.

Beadle Bamford takes another shot of cheap gin, and checks his rifle to make sure it's loaded and ready.

Sweeney Todd stands on the docks with Toby, soaking wet from rinsing the blood from his clothes in the harbor's waters, and waits for a carriage to arrive. He's clutching his razor (the only one now) tightly to his chest, and it's the only thing that's warm.

Toby breaks into his urge to cry, and leans over the edge of the dock, sobbing in great, heaving gasps as a little boy reflected in the salty ocean below cries too, his hair the color of baking flour.

On the bakehouse floor, police scurry about, talking quickly. Then, one turns, yelling to his captain, pointing at the dead woman in flashy clothing. Everyone gathers around, watching this pale, tragic figure.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Mrs. Lovett breathes.

End Prologue

**Zenstereo presents**

**A PeppermintRevolver production:**

**The History of the World **

Roll those opening credits, folks.

_He was five and I was six_

_We rode on horses made of sticks_

_He wore black and I wore white_

_He would always win the fight_

With

Mrs. Lovett as **the Bride a.k.a. Beatrix Kiddo**

Sweeney Todd/Benjamin Barker as **Bill**

_Bang, bang; he shot me down_

_Bang, bang; I hit the ground_

_Bang, bang; that awful sound_

_Bang, bang; my baby shot me down..._

Tobias Ragg as **B.B. Kiddo, Esteban Vallejo**

Anthony, Johanna, Beadle Bamford and Judge Turpin as

**The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad**

and

Mrs. Mooney and her son, Edward Mooney as **Hattori Hanzo and Pai Mei**

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_AN: Well, that's the prologue._

_I realize it's quite violent, but it won't be as bad from now on...Besides, if you don't like it, why did you go see Sweeney Todd?!_

_Reviews and criticism are very appreciated, but if this seems a little weird (a parody is usually weird), I assure you, I understand, and I'm doing the best I can to make the two stories as integral as possible. Please point out any typos spell check doesn't catch, thanks._

Next Chapter: Part I: A Recount of Events


	2. Part I: A Recount of Events

_AN: So we return for chapter two, huh?_

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and who responded. _

_One frequently asked question was "Why didn't Sweeney kill the Judge?" and I'm so glad you asked, because I was thinking it in my mind, but not typing it, you know? I've changed that tiny bit so it makes sense._

_Sweeney didn't kill the Judge because police were at the door to the shop, and he has said plenty of times how he wants to savor his revenge. So, killing the Judge quickly and painlessly was not what he wanted, so he's saving it for later. Like a piece of gum after dinner. :) The police at the door also explain why Sweeney and Toby used the sewers to escape in the first place._

_So, this chapter is actually a prologue to the REAL first chapter, where everything will be set in motion. This chapter is really just a recount of all the important events that have taken place during the five years Mrs. Lovett is in a coma. It's long, but it'll be important to understanding the storyline. _

_Also, I know the musical (both versions) take place in about 1846, but I'm basing this one a bit further on, in the 1880's. Because I don't like doing complicated math. We shall say Mrs. Lovett was "killed" in 1880, and that all these new events take place in the years to follow._

_Read on, and enjoy!_

**"I see your frown, and it's like looking down the barrel of a gun and it goes off!"**

**-- Mardy Bum by the Arctic Monkeys**

**"When you were young, you kept a list of the things you missed as you got older. I've known you in every life I've lived, yeah, I'm still a kid, but now I'm colder."**

**-- One Day, Robots Will Cry by Cobra Starship**

Part I: A Recount of Events

The year is 1881.

The Judge Turpin retires from law due to complications from injuries sustained from an attempt upon his life, after being released from a hospital outside of Dublin from a seven month treatment. He can no longer walk for prolonged periods of time, speak for very long, or talk very loudly, which makes him a poor qualification for a judge anyways. He is wealthy enough to afford to hire a housekeeper, a woman a bit older than him, who moves him into Johanna's old bedroom, with all his books, so he can look out the window.

New birds have been bought for the birdcage, and the Judge sits in bed most of each day, contemplating this bitter irony. He wonders vaguely why the birds do not sing.

The Beadle Bamford, upon looking up to find the sun rising, and the night to be over, feels relief wash over him, accompanied by a feeling of shame. He wakes his servant, and orders a breakfast, and looking at himself in the mirror, he sees a cowardly man, with no power at all. The Judge is dead, and all his influence is but a memory. Finishing his tea, he resolves to become the most powerful man in Europe.

In Cairo, Egypt, Anthony and Johanna spend all of this year wandering about the pyramids, living in a small inn run by an English ambassador's wife and daughters. They learn all there is to learn about one another. Johanna feels a sense of wonder, gazing upon the Sphinx, and the temples to the ancient gods. She's read about them all, Alexander the Great, Cleopatra, and Moses. To stand there, walking where they walked, she feels a sense of excitement. Anthony gets a job lifting crates and assisting the crews down on the docks near the Nile, and she helps the ambassador's wife, cleaning the rooms and serving food. Anthony asks her to marry him. She says yes, and requests that they return to England to be wed.

In the same hospital in Dublin where the Judge Turpin resided, a woman lies in a comatose state, operated on every few weeks. She breathes steady, and her expression is peaceful. The doctor, a man named Alan Singer, takes to sitting near her bed, telling her of all his woes. She is a very good listener.

The tale of Sweeney Todd, and his killings, spread through London like wildfire. People ask and wonder about his whereabouts, and his motives. A small news story, recurring each Sunday, tells the story of Todd Benn, a man wronged by the law, and forced to homicidal tendencies. It is an immensely popular work of fiction, due to the assumption by the public that it is a recount of Sweeney Todd's life. It is not very well written, though it is emotional enough to attract the usual market of women and old men who have nothing better to do. It is re-printed several times, and makes a large amount of money, which is wired to a small town on the southern coast of England, to sit in the bank until a man with dark, wild hair, and even wilder eyes walks into town every Wednesday and collects the check, signing for the entire amount of money, and giving a slight nod to the banker. He never says a word, and no one seems to know where he lives, only that it is on the coast.

The year is 1882.

Beadle Bamford usurps control of all the opium dens in London through a stroke of good luck and bargaining, soon extending his control to all of Britain. He is accompanied everywhere by bodyguards, a group of fearsome looking men carrying heavy metal clubs, dressed in all black attire. He makes plans to take control of France and Italy, and perhaps Amsterdam, and plots to take over the business of the Red Light District. Money begins to flow in, and he is overcome with the newness of success, the power of success.

Johanna and Anthony return to England, wearing small gold engagement rings, holding hands as they disembark to be met by a boy of thirteen, wearing a black top hat. He bows low, pulling the hat off to reveal a head of white hair. He tells them that he is here to take them to Fleet Street, where they can stay in Mr. Todd's building. Upon mention of this, Anthony immediately understands. The boy leads them into London's dark streets, where they will meet a man dressed in black and white, with a grey coat and wild eyes. The two, the boy and the strange man, are the only others present in the church aside from the priest as he weds Anthony and Johanna. Upon the end of the ceremony, only Johanna seems to notice the man looks oddly proud, as if he's about to cry. He hugs her briefly, and whispers in her ear that she is surely as pretty as her mother was.

Dr. Alan Singer's wife begins to drift away from him, shying from his touch. He voices this concern to his companion, the sleeping red-haired woman whose pale skin is like porcelain. He also speaks of his mother, an able seamstress who has always told him she disapproved of his marriage. She lives by the sea, and upon mention of the freshness of the air by the ocean, Alan Singer can almost swear he hears the woman give a quiet sigh of wistfulness.

In 1882, Judge Turpin has counted scores of men and women walking past his window as he stares outside at the street below. He sees the Beadle walk past his window several times, but does not bother getting his attention. The spineless man has taken up company with the lowest scum of London, and even now, as an aging man, the former judge refuses to stoop so low as to allow such a man into his house, a former friend (or at least, as close as anything he's ever had). Instead, he limps about, feeding his birds that never sing, and reading his books of law and scandalous seduction.

Johanna and Anthony take up residence in a house in Venice, Italy, a three room flat above a baker's shop. Anthony begins to sail out for a week or so at a time, shipping things to Greece and the islands of the Mediterranean, and for the seven days he's gone every month, Johanna begins to wander about the cloisters and churches, marveling at their stained glass windows and arched ceilings. She imagines she's never seen such beauty. She also starts to receive small letters from the white-haired boy, Tobias, whose writing is messy and very poor, but seems to improve. Enclosed is always another letter, written in a perfectly neat scroll that reminds her of her own hand-writing, speaking of the sea, and the weather, and asking her of her health. She thinks of them as friends, and often composes letters to them in her head as she shelves bread in the bakery below. She feels she is happy, or at least content.

Beadle Bamford extends his control to the Red Light Districts of London, areas in France and in Venice, Italy. He is a very rich man. In this year, he becomes the most powerful man in the London underworld.

And in 1883, during December, as snow falls on London, as Judge Turpin sits, gazing out mournfully at the world outside, a tall, thin man with a frightening face and a icy presence shows up at his door, rapping hard on the polished wood of the entrance with pale knuckles.

The housekeeper, Ms. Emma Pearl, answers the door to a man of his early forties, who's wearing a gracious smile. He bows slightly.

"Hello, ma'am. I wondered if I might inquire after the former Judge Turpin? That is, if he's still residing here in this lovely house."

Surprised by such politeness coming from such a frightening and rather rough looking man, she returns his small bow with a curtsy, and ushers him into the parlor, sitting him in the nice red velvet chair.

"What brings you to call on poor Mr. Turpin?"

He folds his hands in his lap, and tilts his head to one side. "Ah, well, ma'am, I'm an old acquaintance of his, from many years back, and I've been traveling for quite a long while. I'm only to be in London for a few days before returning to the seas, to sail to Italy and see all the old buildings of Rome. And I don't have much to do, so I thought perhaps I should drop in, and say hello to him."

She nods, pouring him tea, which he thanks her for. After taking a sip, and assuring her that is the best tea he's tasted in quite a while, he sets down the cup and leans toward her.

"May I ask, ma'am, why you call him poor? I heard he retired from his position, but I have heard little about his health. Is he alright?"

She sighs sadly. In some ways, despite how cruel a man the Judge was in his day, she feels sorry for him, pent up indoors all day, staring out the window with such a lonely expression on his face. She also secretly thinks him handsome, in a way, but she never shows it, for fear of him discovering it. Sitting down for a moment, she leans in.

"Well, you see, sir, Mr. Turpin was attacked by some awful man, a barber named Sweeney Todd, who had some sort of grudge against him. And-- Oh, well, surely you know the story...?"

He shakes his head. She gives him a look of distress at this news, and continues.

"Well, he was attacked. It was quite horrid. He spent almost a year in a fancy hospital up in Scotland, I hear. He can't walk for much longer than ten minutes, and he can't speak very well. Poor thing, I feel sorry for him. He's quite kind to me, actually."

If the housekeeper had paid attention to the man's face as he listened, she would have seen his eyes glint mysteriously at this profession of the Judge's kindness, and would have noticed his mouth, pulled in a kind smile, twist upwards at one corner, turning the harmless expression into one of maliciousness and cynicism.

But she did not notice. Hearing no response to her story, she wrings her hands nervously, and then stands, making for the stairs.

"I'll go and tell him you're here to visit, Mister...?"

He sits up a bit straighter. "Barker. Benjamin Barker."

She nods. "Yes. I'll be right back, Mr. Barker."

When he's sure she's left, he rises from the chair quickly, lifting lids on small, ornately decorated boxes on the mantelpiece, peering in each one, pulling back in disappointment to see nothing of value inside them. Finally, he comes to a rough, plain looking jar of porcelain, chipped at places, with no decorations. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he feels a stirring of recognition within him. He's seen the jar before...on a windowsill, holding flowers he would buy each Sunday...His hand darts inside quickly, pulling out a silver necklace, with a small heart locket attached. It has a rose engraved on the front, and as he turns it in his hand, he recalls how lovely it looked against his wife's neck, how perfect it--

Hearing the footsteps on carpet again, he tucks it into his coat pocket, darting back to his chair, and reclining in a resting position, one leg crossed over the other, tapping his foot. He turns slowly, smile back on his face as he pretends to only have just noticed the housekeeper's return.

"He'll see you right away, Mr. Barker."

"Excellent." He looks to the polished wood floor, and allows a brief smirk to cross his features as he stands, and follows the woman upstairs, eying with disgust the painting of half-clothed women lounging in forest glens, serving grapes and wines to men who look like gods chiseled from marble.

The last door in the narrow hallway is open slightly, light flowing through in a small line. He nods to the housekeeper, and feels briefly sorry for what he's going to put her through. Pushing open the door, he slips into the room, locking the door swiftly behind him, and striding over to the bedside, where a chair is waiting for him. He sits, back facing a window that looks out onto the street below. Above him, a cage of birds sways slightly. The small creatures inside utter no sound. Folding his arms, he looks over to the figure in the bed.

An old man now, he thinks, seeing the Judge again. Greying hair hangs near his eyes now, and his neck, exposed, has a ugly red line running halfway across it. He's got the blankets tucked up to his torso, dressed in a maroon robe, and a white shirt. Turning his head, he stares at Sweeney Todd, nodding, a smile crossing his withered features, knowingly.

"So," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "You've come at last, then."

Scratching his neck, Todd gives him a jerk of his head in acknowledgment.

"Well, I figured nearly three years was enough to wait. No one even recognized me."

Folding his pale hands in his lap, Turpin continues to nod, eyes shining with fear and what looks almost like relief.

"I thought it would be a blessing to be alive."

Sweeney Todd gives a genuine chuckle of amusement. "Sorry, old man. But living when everything you loved is lost is a fate worse than death. I'm sure you know what I mean."

Turning his body about in bed, the Judge sits straighter. "Yes." It's a murmur, a realization of the motive behind keeping him alive. "Yes. I've been shut away, away from the air, and the streets. And the birds..." He points a shaking finger to the cage, mournfully sighing. "They do not sing for me. They didn't even sing for Johanna."

"They never will you know, when they're captive." Sweeney stands, pulling off his jacket to reveal a leather holster, with a glittering silver razor in it. He pulls it out carefully, with reverence. His only friend...

Turpin stays silent, staring at the yellow birds, who stay still.

"I do wish I had killed you, that night. I had so wanted to. But unfortunate events made that impossible. I suggest you appreciate these extra years. You'll soon be wishing you could sit in bed all day, gazing out at London."

"Wait." Turpin holds up a hand, sliding out of bed and getting to his feet shakily. "Answer me one question, Barker."

"It's Sweeney Todd."

"I don't care," he says, waving his hand to dismiss this correction. "Tell me, Barker. Where is Johanna?"

At this, Sweeney Todd's gaze darts to the birds in the cage, and back to Turpin. He rolls his eyes.

"What a sad old man you've become. In love my daughter, even after all she has done to hurt you. Even knowing such an impossibility as love from any woman is,for you, impossible. You are nothing. Not anymore."

The Judge Turpin steps forwards, gripping the collar of Sweeney Todd's shirt, eyes full of longing.

"Please." He pleads, knuckles white against the fabric of the shirt.

With a look of revulsion, as if a very filthy animal has come too close to him, Todd pushes him away.

"She is happy. Married. And she is not with you," he snaps, brushing his shirt front.

And in this instant, Judge Turpin's heart (or what was left of it) breaks. He slumps back in bed, staring off into the distance, mind somewhere far away.

Giving a sigh, Sweeney Todd flips open his blade, gazing deeply into the silver in his hand. It is beautiful, the most beautiful thing he's ever looked at. It whispers to him, pleading for blood.

"Yes...I know, it's been too long, my friend."

His dark eyes fall upon the Judge, lying on the sheets. Pulling up near him, like a predatory beast, Todd feels as if cold water is washing over him, cleansing him of all his inhibitions. After this, he can be free. He can do what he pleases.

_"And what if none of their souls were saved? They went to their maker impeccably shaved..."_

He whispers it, a true smile crossing his lips as he lowers the blade slowly.

Downstairs, the housekeeper is startled out of a small nap by a horrible scream, hoarse and painful, and a racket from upstairs. Running up as fast as she can, she disregards knocking on her employer's door and bursts into the room. What she sees almost makes her faint.

There's blood pouring from the Judge Turpin's open throat, spraying the ceiling and windows. His eyes are wide, and already are becoming lifeless.

In the opened window, the birdcage hangs, swaying in the wind, empty.

Outside, two streets away already, Sweeney Todd can hear them sing.

In 1884, the pale woman Alan Singer has begun to refer to as Miss Ghost is transferred to another ward, where permanent residents are kept. No-one seems to believe she'll ever wake up, and as they pass Alan, they snicker at his foolish optimism. He sits there, each day, for about a half hour, speaking to her of his daughter, Evangeline, who's fifteen years old, and a wonderful artist. She is the light of his life, mailing him pictures of birds and the wide open fields of the countryside, where she is staying with her uncle and aunt. He tells the woman that he believes she'll wake up one day. As he sits there, he notes her scars, remembering how awful her injuries had been, when she had been first admitted. As he gazes at this mystery woman, he wonders what sort of a person would have done such a thing. A true demon, surely.

Sweeney Todd is sitting in his old barber's chair on a visit to London, Toby rummaging through the wooden chest in the corner, nose scrunched as he stares at the blood stains on the inside surface. Turning to his guardian, he frowns.

"You know, you really didn't keep this thing clean at all, Mr. Todd. S'not very good for selling, see, cos it's so stained on the inside."

Smiling at this ironic description of his own self, he leans his head back, shrugging his shoulders.

"It doesn't matter to me, Tobias. This world is full of desperate people. Someone will purchase it, and not care a bit about the bloody stains."

Toby chuckles. Mr. Todd can be humorous, sometimes, when he is in a particular mood. Even more so, now that he's killed the Judge. Toby has come to think of him as something of a father, or uncle. Mr. Todd's even taught him how to read and write, and he writes to Johanna, in Italy, once a month.

At the thought of Johanna, Toby feels his cheeks flush. He knows that Mr. Todd's daughter is older than he is, but only by five years, and he's already fifteen.

Once they escaped, Mr. Todd had spoken of all the reasons behind his killing of Judge Turpin, and his life before, when he had been married and happy, and Toby had realized then why Mrs. Lovett had trusted him; the motive behind the murders was certainly enough justification for him, and he resolved then, permanently, to trust Mr. Todd. He knew, somehow, that the man would not kill him, though he did not know why. He decided to be grateful for it, and do all he could to help this strange man, whose personal demons kept him from sleep and any rest.

It's better now, that the cursed Judge is dead, the murderer of Mrs. Lovett, the evil man who ruined countless lives. Much better.

They both take one end of the heavy wooden chest, carefully going downstairs, and then selling it off to a man who runs an underground opium den in his basement, then take the money and go off to buy some lunch.

In the opium den's upstairs parlor, Beadle Bamford watches from behind the counter as Sweeney Todd lifts the heavy chest onto the table and holds out a hand for his payment. Terror grips him, and upon the demon's disappearance, he straightens, and begins his plans to eliminate this threat once and for all.

Judge Turpin's funeral is paid for by Ms. Pearl, his housekeeper. Incidentally, she is the only one who shows up at his funeral, crying freely. She lays a small white flower on his grave, and speaks aloud her love for him, how sorry she felt for him. How sorry she was that she hadn't known before about the strange man with his flattering smiles and kind eyes, and his secret. She is probably the only one who misses him for his company.

In the year 1885, Johanna receives a letter telling her that she is the sole inheritor of all of Judge Turpin's estate, and funds. Anthony is more pleased with the man's death than the inheritance. Johanna does not sell the home, instead simply choosing to keep it empty. She has no wish to return to her prison.

Beadle Bamford writes to the hospital in Dublin, and sits down in his chair, downing a gin, smiling. All he must do now is wait.

Alan Singer wakes up as usual on the day of March, the 11th, 1885. He has his usual breakfast of tea, eggs and toast, with his daughter sitting across from him, sixteen now, telling him of how she's been commissioned by the newspaper to do drawings. He is so proud of her.

He dresses in his white doctor's uniform, and he walks through town to the hospital, greeted by the nurse at the front area, making his morning rounds at an easy pace, the way a man who's done his work every day, and knows it with his eyes closed. He walks the two flights of stairs to the ward where his friend is kept, opening the door to her small room quietly.

Today is a good day, he feels.

Sitting on his stool, he greets her, and then tells her excitedly of his daughter's new job, and of his plans to buy her a new set of paints and an easel.

As he speaks, he leans back staring at the ceiling, no longer looking at his patient.

On the crisply made bed of white sheets, Mrs. Lovett lies, peaceful. As he speaks of how to cut the ends of paint brushes off, she breathes steadily.

"It's best to use a razor to sort of saw away at it, to keep it even, at least, that's what Evie tells me. The girl's smart as a whip, I tell you..."

Razor. Silver, glinting, a razor...His friend, his faithful, only friend, even though she was always there, always, so ready to listen and help. She was warmer than any razor, and she could have been...Oh, they could have been happy. Truly happy.

A razor...

Her eyes snap open.

_AN: Oh jeez, I hope it isn't repetitive..._

_Some little tid-bits:_

_Dr. Alan Singer shares his last name with Marla Singer of the movie and book Fight Club, who Helena Bonham-Carter played as well._

_And the serial news publishing of Sweeney Todd's tale is an actual book now. Much like Charles Dickens' works, it was released as a newspaper story each week. Sort of like Prince Valiant, or some weird drama comic in a newspaper today. I had Sweeney write it himself because it seemed fitting, and also to give him a means of some income. _

_I know Toby's hair didn't turn white in the movie, but it was something I always liked in the musical, so I added it in._

Next chapter:

Part II: The Years Have Changed Me


	3. Part II: Years No Doubt Have Changed Me

_AN: Ahhh, my wrists hurt from typing these...But I find it very therapeutic, to write this fic. Even with finals, annoying advanced classes, and gasp sigh swim team season approaching..._

_Which will make my very soul hurt...Hello, dry land exercises...hello, aching thighs and arms..._

_Yes. Well..._

_I'd like to thank all my reviewers, watchers, etc. You are all so good to me, and it is unreal to have people tell me I'm an amazing writer...(I mean, I know I'm good, but, the best?! Nah...). Your reviews mean so much to me, seriously. I'd also like to thank the Academy, Jesus, and my mom, hahaha._

_Back to our story, then!_

_So, finally, we get to actual plot, huh? Mrs. Lovett's first name in this story will be Eleanor/Nellie. Because even I would get sick of writing stuff like "Mrs. Lovett blah blah bicycle...blah blah Mrs. Lovett felt...blah blah...". So, Eleanor. Which Nellie is short for, you silly people!_

_From now on, I'd like to think the chapters are going to be shorter. But there's no guarantee._

_I've had some comments on the Beadle's usurping control of the opium dens. I realize it's unrealistic, and silly, but he's supposed to be the O-Ren Ishii of our story, and she's a bad ass Yakuza leader. So, I'm trying my best to make him gangsta. I realize the mob didn't truly exist back then. _

_Enjoy._

**"And it's all flailing limbs at the front lines...Every single one of us is twisted by design..."**

**--- You! Me! Dancing! by Los Campesinos**

**"If you wish to drown, do not trouble yourself with shallow water."**

**--- Bulgarian proverb**

Part II: The Years Have Changed Me

For a brief instant, Dr. Singer cannot breathe.

He supposes that it is like the child who has been woken every morning by his mother, for years, and then, when he moves out as a man, he sleeps in and is always late.

Alan has gotten so used to seeing his companion, this ghostly woman on the brink between death and life, sleeping with eyes closed, never moving, that he has become like that child, used to his mother's voice in the morning, rousing him from slumber.

But seeing this woman, who's been almost like a statue for five years, sitting up straight in her bed, eyes wide with fright and pain, breathing heavily as she screams, clutching her head, he cannot believe it.

She's really awake.

Running shaking hands through her reddish hair, she seems to compose herself, brown eyes flitting about this sparsely decorated hospital room, and then, she gives a gasp, clutching her neck, murmuring in surprise to feel the thin pink scar on her throat.

It's at about this point Alan Singer regains his voice, and shuffles his chair forwards, scraping loudly on the concrete flooring. She jumps, head whipping about to stare at him, looking fearful for a brief instant, then relaxing her suddenly tensed muscles at the sight of him.

"Oh," she mutters. "I s'pose it wouldn't have been him. Silly of me..."

She has a strange accent, clearly raised in London, and he laughs with the absurdity of it all. She's awake, the patient everyone said would never wake up is talking to him. She can talk to him.

"You...you're...You're awake! I'm...I mean, what is your name...?" He runs a hand through his brown hair, shaking his head, amazed.

She frowns, squinting at him as she bites on her fingernail, looking thoughtful. She brightens suddenly, nodding in understanding.

"Ah! You're the doctor, then...ah...Singer, your name is, I think. I'm Nell-- I mean. Well, no one calls me that anymore, not since dear Albert went and died on me...You can call me Mrs. Lovett."

"Mrs. Lovett..." He whispers it, the name sounding strange on his tongue after calling her Miss Ghost for so long. Suddenly remembering his duties as a doctor, he straightens in his chair, official and serious.

"Ma'am. You've suffered some very severe injuries. We operated on you for quite some time, but...I'm afraid you'll still have the scar on your back."

Her hand travels immediately to her back, one hand running under the hospital gown, and her face twists into a pained expression, her eyes reflecting a deep sadness.

"He killed me...He..."

She pauses, purpose suddenly filling her features, an unpleasant smile crossing her face. Dr. Singer watches, fascinated. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, and makes to get up, only to land with a loud thud on the cold floor.

"Oh, you might have difficulty walking...Here, let me..."

He stands quickly, helping her to her feet. She protests faintly, but seems too tired, and relents easily. How funny, he thinks, that she would be tired, after sleeping for five years. Sitting down on the edge of the bed next to her, he wrings his hands nervously, not knowing what to say. She seems somewhat subdued, out of reach, her thoughts somewhere else.

"He killed me, you know."

"Who?", Alan asks, inquisitive.

"Sweeney Todd."

At this, he laughs. The Sweeney Todd? The barber who put people in pies? He wonders if she's mad, or delusional, or possibly both. Putting his hand on hers (her own hand stiffens beneath his, cold as ice), he gives her a sympathetic smile.

"Now, I know you've been asleep for five years, Mrs. Lovett, but you obviously had a dream about him, and now you're thinking he actually killed you. You know, there was man who came through here, about the same time as you. Said the same thing, about being attacked by Sweeney Todd himself. Probably mad, but..."

He frowns, putting his other hand on her shoulder.

"...I don't want to believe you're mad too, Mrs. Lovett."

Shaking her head, Mrs. Lovett grips his shoulder with one hand, and lifts herself up, standing on her own feet, shakily. Giving him a look of derision, she says quite seriously:

"We're all mad, Dr. Singer, I'm afraid. The whole world has gone mad, and...Did you say I've been lying there, in that there bed for five years?"

He nods slowly, and she lets out a whistle.

"Well, the bastard certainly did his very best to leave me for dead, I'll give him that. Now, where would I go to get my effects?"

Alan stares at her quizzically, not quite understanding her accent. She sighs in frustration.

"My clothes. The things I came in 'ere with."

"Oh. I don't know."

Mrs. Lovett rolls her eyes. "Well, you're quite a fountain of information, aren't ya? Hm. What about your wife, you think I could borrow some clothes of hers? I mean, I'll pay ya back, just as soon as I get into London and all. Really."

"My wife...? No...She left. I don't know where she went." He looks away, remembering her, with her black hair and soft smile, so beautiful. He had loved her, and still did. He feels Mrs. Lovett's hand leave his shoulder, walking slowly to the door, hands spread out like wings to balance herself. She shrugs.

"Ah, well, I don't suppose I could pinch a nurse's dress, could I? Well, they probably have loads, so what's one missing dress going to do...?"

He chokes a little, reaching out for her.

"W-wait! Mrs. Lovett!"

Pivoting slowly, so as not to fall, she gives him a impatient stare. "What is it, Mr. Singer?"

"I...I want to help you."

Another grin crosses her lips quickly, vanishing as her face returns to a look of quiet triumph. As if she knows exactly what she's going to do, all the time. He's almost frightened by her now, a woman no longer still, and pretty, but an English madwoman who claims she knows the demon Sweeney Todd, with wild eyes and a furious smile. And if she really was telling the truth, and she knew such a murderer, what kind of person did that make her...? What had she done to deserve such a cruel punishment from a man notorious for killing quickly, and neatly?

But Alan Singer doesn't care. She has sat there, listening to him prattle on for five years, and despite the obvious screws loose, he thinks of her as a friend. And he knows he cannot go about and let her leave without helping her. He owes her that.

Standing up, Doctor Alan Singer thinks of his daughter and how she would love to hear this story. How she would have wanted to meet this woman. But pushing this aside, he pulls out of his pocket a large ring of keys.

"I'll take you to the uniform room."

Mrs. Lovett's eyes sparkle, seeming delighted at breaking the rules, and she brushes an arrant strand of hair away from her face.

"Excellent, love."

----------------------------------------------------------

She waves to the quickly shrinking figure of Dr. Alan Singer, standing on the platform in his silly doctor's outfit, waving frantically from his spot on the train station's boarding platform.

She feels a bit sorry for him. He's had quite a horrid lot in life, with an obviously cheating wife and an over-bearing mother who's forced love onto her son so much, he's convinced himself he wanted to be a doctor all his life, and it was not a dream his dear mother had alway had for her future son, as a little girl playing dress-up, imagining her perfect life as a woman of riches.

But he was kind enough, Mrs. Lovett thinks, to go and steal this dress.

It's a black thing, with a starched white collar and apron. She had refused the silly hat that went with it, insisting she already looked too much like a nun, and that she didn't want to stride right into London looking like she was making rounds for donations.

"Although, I probably'll need some money. Maybe I should've taken the silly hat."

Pondering this, she turns away from the window and moves to a small compartment that's empty, sitting down quickly, and sighing in relief.

She can tell it will take some getting used to, this walking business, seeing as how she hasn't done it in five years. Stupid legs, they couldn't stay in the shape they had been, could they?

She supposes it was the walking about all the time, around the shop, and up those creaky steps to Mr. Todd's room that made her so quick on her feet. So used to moving (gliding, even) across the ground beneath her, the motions of serving food and kneading dough so ingrained in her very being that she cannot imagine living life without the constant walking.

And that foolish Sweeney Todd's pacing above her head every day, his boots making a nervous rhythm on the ceiling, pounding in her brain, driving her mad. He was always pacing, wasn't he...?

At the thought of Sweeney Todd, she feels an odd mixture of emotion. On the one hand, her first reaction, the reaction she would always have, before, when she thought of him, is a feeling of happiness, almost strong enough to make her sigh longingly. But then, she remembers him being so close, holding her waist, eyes full of what seemed like such a real affection, and how quick it turned, like a match being lit, to detestation and hate, and hurt.

She remembers that it hurt.

While getting dressed, she had looked at her back in a mirror, heart pounding erratically against her ribs as she recalls the heat and the searing pain, so hot it felt cold. It's a pinkish red now, and it looks like the roots of a tree, spanning out across her shoulder blades in little curving lines of raised flesh from its origin, a thick mass along her spine.

Mrs. Lovett doesn't even want to think how they fixed it. How they took needles and thread, and those silver doctor's razors...

She shivers.

There is also a thin line across her neck, pink and not very visible, but there's another scar on her shoulder, like a sunburst, red and painful looking. It hurts, to move her shoulder in a circle.

Dr. Singer had told her that the shoulder wound had actually been the most critical, because it had struck a large vein, and wouldn't stop bleeding. He had suggested she move it in small circles every day, to help adjust to movement.

She leans her head against the window, furious.

She probably deserved what he did to her. Lying about his wife.

But, she had done it because she loved him...Hadn't she? Or had she only lied to keep him for herself?

"Probably a bit of both," she murmurs, watching as the Scottish countryside goes by. It is not very interesting, all green fields and little houses, but it is soothing in its own way. Life is probably so simple out here.

Just like by the sea.

At this thought, she stops, massaging her temples and moving her thoughts to any other subject. Just the instant of mentioning it has made her sick and incredibly sad. The salt air, and the sun...The cloudless sky, and the warm sand...

It's too much to even imagine having a place by the ocean now. She tries, and he comes into her mind, dark and brooding, all smirks and evil looks. She sees now, how silly and foolish she had been, to think he'd ever really love her. He couldn't think of anything but revenge.

"I wonder if he killed the old Judge...Probably did, knowing 'im. Can't sit still long without thinking of it, bloody git couldn't stand it, I'll bet."

Eleanor runs her hands over her knees, smoothing wrinkles in the crisp nurse's dress. It smells of medicine and soap, an over-powering combination that is giving her a horrid headache.

Or perhaps the headache is from thinking too much on the past.

Hadn't she been the one who had always said to forgive, and forget? Hadn't she always told him to stop thinking so much?

And here she was, sulking just like he did, thinking of only him and all the injustice of it. She's so angry with him, just seeing his face, with that blank expression as he sits in his barber's chair, twirling the razor in his nimble fingers, just the sight makes hot fury bubble up inside her.

She loved him. _Loved _him. Unconditionally, with all her heart and soul. She'd really have done nearly anything for him, and she nearly had (skinning dead corpses, and chopping them up seemed to her something that would most certainly buy her a first-class ticket to the last circle of Hell), and the baking the men into pies had been her idea. She'd scrubbed his wood floors every day, sometimes five times a day, quick and efficient, to get rid of the blood, she'd served him food, given him back his ever-so-special razors, kept them for years, when she could've sold them and bought herself food for a month, maybe more. She had made sacrifices, and she'd even half-agreed to allowing him to kill Toby, that sweet boy (although, she had planned on convincing him otherwise at the last moment). She had waited, for goodness sake, for fifteen years, and before that, at least four, until she would see the day he could be hers, only to have him take that one hope away from her, cruel as anything.

But she knew Sweeney Todd, and she knew that he was cruel. When he set his mind to something, well, there was no stopping it, and he'd wait as long as he could, until he could execute it with precision and perfection.

Yes, he had been so perfect to her.

"I know different than that, now, though."

Yes. She knew much more now.

_In all of the whole human race, Mrs. Lovett, there are two kinds of men and only two..._

She folds her arms over her chest, slouching in the seat on the train, gazing up at a cloud that vaguely reminds her of a cat, sleeping in the sun.

The sudden impact of one of her Brilliant Ideas hits her full force in that instant, and she laughs.

It is all so very simple, she thinks. But she's always been practical, always thinking of exactly the simplest, and most expedient way to go about things, without wasting anything (time, money, energy or any food included).

And now, with a plan already forming in her head, Mrs. Lovett leans back in her seat, and closes her eyes to rest.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The Beadle Bamford taps his expandable cane on the bricks of the train station's floor, impatient as always. He has never been very good at waiting for anything, especially now that people usually go about getting him exactly what he wants in little or no time at all.

But he knows that it is an important thing, to wait. Waiting is sometimes the best plan of attack, in war, and in everything. It does not mean, however pressing a necessity patience is, that the Beadle had to like it.

No, he didn't have to enjoy waiting.

He didn't enjoy many things anyways. He loved the sound of wallpaper being peeled off a wall, and the scent of perfume in barber shops (although this was a memory to him, for he no longer set foot in any barber shop, ever). He liked waking in the morning and having tea with a bit of toast.

And he loved it when he could watch his plans all come full circle, to be finished up nicely. With not a single flaw.

The train pulls in with a screech, doors opening and passengers coming out in hoards, people on the platforms suddenly calling every single name, eyes searching a sea of bodies.

One thing Beadle Bamford dislikes is crowds. He knows, though, that in a crowd, you can always disappear, and be safe.

He stands where he is, waiting until the rush has died, and watches with his beady eyes the doors to the train cars, spotting at last a woman, of average height, with red-brown hair and pale complexion, and in this moment, sees the threads of his masterfully co-ordinated plan tie together. It all lies with this woman.

He lifts one finger, and she looks up from her feet, which she had been staring at with intense concentration. She is moving fairly slow, taking cautious steps as if treading on ice. Upon setting her eyes on the Beadle, her nose crinkles in distaste, and she turns, walking in an opposite direction at a faster pace, slightly wobbly.

He catches up easily, taking off his hat (custom tailored) and bowing.

"Madam, please, I beg of you to not judge me for my past mistakes. I am only here to take you by carriage to your old shop, where I assume you are headed?"

Sneering, she shakes her head. "Yeah, you're doing it out of the goodness in your 'eart, I'm sure, Beadle Bamford. I'll 'ave none of it, thank you, now let me continue on my way..."

He side-steps, blocking her path, and she gives a sigh of annoyance. Making a clicking noise of disapproval, he gives her his best, most flattering smile.

"Please, Ms. Lovett. I beg of you to let me escort you. You see...I have been paying your hospital bills, for these past four years. Quite a debt, I assure you, but I only want what's best for my friends and neighbors. Now, I'd think it quite rude to turn down a carriage ride from such a generous benefactor, wouldn't you?"

He can see she hates him for this, and for a fleeting instant, he notes a clear glint in her eye, just like _he_ had, a murderous thought. He's sure she'd think nothing of killing him. She wouldn't have worried, if she'd have been skinning him and putting him in a pie...The Beadle decides he should be cautious with this one. She is almost as dangerous as Sweeney Todd himself, seeing how she was the one behind the man, doing the dirty work. But that's why he wanted her for this in the first place.

She elbows his offered arm away as they make back to the parked carriage (his own private carriage, one of four), and she refuses his help getting in. It is obvious she's not been walking about for long, since getting out of the hospital. Once inside, he shuts the door, and folds his hands on his lap. It's time for business now, he thinks. No more dancing about this.

"Now, you may want to know, Mrs. Lovett, why I have been so kind to you. Or how I knew you'd be arriving here, today, in London. That's quite simple. You see, I've been having the hospital in Dublin send me monthly reports of your condition, and just this afternoon, I was informed of your being let out, sent on a train back here."

She seems uninterested in this, and she sits, looking like a sulking adolescent who's going somewhere they don't want to go. He takes it as a cue to continue.

"Mrs. Lovett. I have been paying for your medical care for one reason, and one reason only. And you probably can already guess why. Would you care to guess?"

She shrugs. "I dunno why, you sick--"

"-- I'll tell you why."

He pauses, looking at her quite seriously. She raises one eyebrow, skeptical.

"I want you, Mrs. Lovett, to kill Sweeney Todd."

At this, she laughs, seeming almost relieved, and a bit surprised.

"Really? May I ask why you want me to, ah...hahaha, kill Mr. Todd?"

He huffs, offended at her humor. "He is a threat to my life, a wall blocking my way. I cannot achieve my full potential without him dead. One hundred percent dead, and unable to ever...ever..."

He stops, the image of the Judge, bloodied, his face full of pain and agony filling his mind...

"I simply want him dead, and as someone who I assume would have a grudge against him...After all, he tried to kill you...You seemed the perfect candidate for this job."

Mrs. Lovett rolls her eyes. "Oh, so you're hiring me to do dirty work for you, is that what this is? I ain't interested in any silly little fears you have. I'm not your mum, and I'm certainly not going about, chasing all your nightmares away from under your bed. Find somebody else, and--"

"Ah, ah, ah, Mrs. Lovett," he holds up his finger again, to silence her, so he can unveil his checkmate. "You see...You owe me a substantial amount of money. Quite a bit, I assure you. And...well, I'm a very kind man, Mrs. Lovett. But I am not that kind, if you get my meaning. And if you refuse, well...I assure you, I will the get the money from you, one way or another."

Her mouth tightens to a thin line, eyes flashing dangerously, but she has no weapon, and he's almost sure he can overpower a scrawny woman like her. She runs a hand through her hair, breathing loudly through her nose, as if to calm her temper. Finally, she returns his smile with her own sickly sweet grin, tilting her head to the side, almost innocent. He is suddenly fearful; she has not reacted in the way he had expected.

"Well, now," she drawls, "I suppose I can understand that, Mr. Bamford. I myself 'aven't ever had too much luck with finances. I don't really have a choice in this..."

He disregards her odd reply, instead nodding, victorious.

"Excellent, now I will instruct you on--"

"--No." She reaches over him, knocking on the carriage's panel to alert the driver to stop. She sets her hand on the handle, and gives him a pointed look of determination.

"I will do this the way I please...You see, Beadle..."

She leans in, cupping a hand near her mouth as if telling a dark secret. He tilts forward slightly to hear her better.

Standing on tip-toe to reach close enough to be in hearing range, she whispers to him:

"...from the instant I woke up, I have had the intention of killing Sweeney Todd."

The carriage door slams shut, almost on the Beadle's face, and he slumps back in his seat, sweat beginning to form on his brow, panic running through him.

She's much more dangerous than he initially thought.

Walking away from the carriage, Mrs. Lovett hopes she's given the man a good scare, for trying to coerce her into doing such a thing for him. Although, it is quite convenient, to have a debt cleared for doing something she planned on doing anyway, and will enjoy doing.

Yes.

She knows how it feels now, to think of anything at all, and suddenly feel the pain of knowing it's been taken away from you. To think fondly of a memory, and to have dark thoughts twist it and pollute it, until it no longer anything but a nightmare.

Eleanor Lovett never had demons before now, but she had been in love with one.

And now, she knows they will only go away when he is gone.

_AN: And so, we find out more behind the Beadle's motives. He's a slimy jerk, isn't he?_

_I actually enjoy writing his parts, though, it's surprisingly simple to write the point of view of a hated character._

_I hope that this chapter gives you some insight into Mrs. Lovett's reasons behind deciding to kill Sweeney (although, it's not all of her reasons...I do have to write a whole story, you know). I didn't want to make her seem petty, for only thinking of killing him because he tried to kill her._

_Because...you know, she did lie to him. About his wife, and that's pretty big. And for someone like Sweeney Todd, who's already unhinged, I can totally see how it would be more than enough to drive him over the edge. So. _

_Also, I realize I'm not writing the English accent for Mrs. Lovett as much as some people do. And that's because it really bothers me to write that dialog. So, I've added in what I hope is enough so that she seems in character, but not so much that it feels overdone. _

_Looking back, I realize my word count for this chapter has not changed...I suppose that means the chapters aren't getting shorter._

Next chapter:

Part III: The Other Pie Shop


	4. Part III: The Other Pie Shop

_AN: Not much to say here...Except that the plot will thicken like that gross sludge Mrs. Lovett used in her pies! Yay!_

_Mrs. Mooney is introduced, along with Edward Mooney, her son. Can you ever guess who his character is based on? (Hint: It's a Tim Burton/Johnny Depp collaboration.)_

_Angst, angst, angst!_

_But who's to say we can't have a bit of dark humor in there?_

_Nobody, that's who!_

_Now, boldly forward, faithful readers!_

**"And the power's out in the heart of man, take it from your heart put in your hand. And there's something wrong in the heart of man,take it from your heart and put it in your hand!"**

**--- Neighborhood #3: Lights Out by The Arcade Fire**

**"If the red slayer think he slays, or if the slayer think he is slain, they know not the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again."**

**--- Brahma, a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson**

Part III: The Other Pie Shop

London itself seemed much the same as it always had, and Mrs. Eleanor Lovett thought it to be quite a disappointment in this regard.

The streets seemed as filthy as ever, filled with the beggar women (no matter how many were killed, or how many died, they would persist, much like an insect) and packed with all every spectrum of classes: the poor orphans, the middle class merchants, the rich aristocratic folk who walking at leisurely paces, dressed in fine clothes, and glowing with color on the dank streets, as if they had strode out boldly from an oil painting on a lovely spring picnic, and into the streets of this horrid city, looking as if nothing was wrong.

She wonders how they can act as if nothing is wrong, but cannot bother asking any of the couples that she passes by, walking easier now, with more precision and balance. It wasn't too difficult, this business of re-acquainting oneself with moving about, and Mrs. Lovett felt her spirits rise at the pride of her accomplishment. She pauses, however, when she reaches the corner of the once so familiar Fleet Street.

It is like a wall, a barricade, and people turn away from it, in their paths toward their destination, or scuttle through an alleyway, darting across the cobblestones and off, away from the street where Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie's once was, and where Sweeney Todd had sliced many a throat, sending the dying men plummeting into her cellar bellow. Upon stepping out, onto Fleet Street itself, she almost laughs.

It is nearly empty, save a old man, huddled outside in an alcove by the grocer's. He's sleeping soundly, shivering from the winter chill, and she passes by him, without stopping. She has heard the tales in America, of the West, and deserts, and towns once inhabited that have been abandoned, left as if everyone simultaneously decided to leave. Her home is like one of those little ghost towns, silent as the grave.

Perhaps, Nellie thinks, it is fitting for it to be so quiet, so empty and feared. She's a little thrilled, to think she's a legend.

Walking past the grocer, and the printer's shop, she sidles onto the end of Fleet Street's sidewalk, which dead ends directly in front of her, but continues on to her right as Swift Street. She hops onto the slippery stone of the actual street, and makes a direct line to the small shop which sits at the dead end.

It is shabby, painted a peeling black, with chips of paint littering the ground beneath it. The shop has alleyways on either side, leading to the areas of London beyond, but they are seldom used, and only the cats inhabit such a place. Or they used to, at least. Upstairs is what seems to be a small flat, with a cracked flower pot sitting on the window sill, the carnations inside it withered and dead.

The sign above the display window of the shop (empty, save for cobwebs and dust) reads:

"Mrs. Mooney's Infamous Savory Pies"

Shaking her head, Mrs. Lovett sighs. Some things really did not change.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alaizabel Mooney had wanted nothing more than to be a playwright. She felt she had always had a distinct flair for all that was dramatic, and all that had to do with the stage. She knew she had the Prescience required of her to act as a heroine, as a villianess, as a misunderstood mother. She had the confidence required of her, the passion that was so helpful, and her parents had had the money to educate her.

But Mrs. Mooney had fallen in love.

Being one who believed in all things thespian, Alaizabel had been the strongest believer in love. She believed so strongly in love's power, and benefits, that she ran away from her parents manor in the outskirts of London to move to the city, and marry Thaniel Mooney, a young man with blonde hair and soft eyes, whose smile produced an erratic beat in her heart, and sent her mind racing. Oh, how love had seemed so perfect then.

Thaniel, however, had turned out to be a failure as a intellectually heightened artist and poet of leisure (as well as a man on complex mental complications), and the new Mrs. Mooney, heartbroken and disillusioned, did not miss him when he was killed by an unidentified man during the nighttime, only four years after their son was born.

She had opened the pie shop on Fleet Street almost immediately afterward, thinking herself a good enough cook to attract customers, and a woman whose education in the ways of sharp knives and objects was more extensive than some, for her father had been a military weapons manufacturer, who had allowed her to read all his books and manuals.

Of course, business had been lovely for years, thanks to her special ingredients, and help from dear Edward, her only son. And there had been other means of income, of course. But then, Mrs. Nellie Lovett had re-opened, and suddenly, when Alaizabel Mooney came in from the bakehouse in her small back courtyard, tray full of pies ready for the lunch rush, she found her little shop to completely empty.

As was such, she had neglected the shop since then, rejoicing briefly when hearing of the horrible slaughter at the shop of her rival, only to be hit worse when the rumors about Fleet Street started. Demons prowled the street, and wild animals roamed the rooftops, waiting for any unsuspecting man to walk by at night, blind by the dark. People were afraid of her pies, Mrs. Mooney's pies, which were perfectly harmless, and simply delicious as well, because of that damned fool Nellie, who had to go and take this one step further, and bake grown men into tasty dinners. It had all but ruined business for Mrs. Alaizabel Mooney, and her son.

Sitting at her counter, absentmindedly carving the initial M into the wood counter-top, she was startled by the cling of her door's bell, an indication of a customer. Ears perking at the sound, the friendly grin spreads across her face, and she puts down the knife.

"Welcome! Wot may I get you, today, then? What sort of pie were you lookin' for?"

The customer is a woman, lean, and pale, dressed in an odd nurse's uniform that buttons to her neck. Sitting down at the table in the corner of the room, this figure nods a greeting to Mrs. Mooney, and then murmurs:

"Ale, if you please."

Alaizabel sighs inwardly, disappointed that this customer (the first in weeks) is not even going to order one pie.

"No pie, then? I assure you, ma'am, they're quite delicious, simply a treat for yer mouth--"

"No, thank you, Alaizabel. I would, if I were not privy to the knowledge that those famous pies yer speakin' of are nothin' more than alley cat baked in toast. So, if you'll not be mindin' me...I'll have my ale, and just that."

The woman's face, previously veiled by her hair, and the darkness of the shop's interior, comes into focus when she raises her chin, light from the smudged window illuminating the wide brown eyes, and that smile that's so very familiar...Alaizabel swears quietly under her breath.

"Good lord...Nellie?" It's barely a whisper.

"The years, I'm sure, have changed me some, Alaizabel. But, yes, it's me. Nellie." She drums her fingers on the tabletop, eyes alight as if she's only been gone a day or two, not five years. Back from the dead, or...?

"I ain't some hallucination, Alaizabel, and I ain't some sort of ghost, if that's what you're thinkin'."

Mrs. Mooney is temporarily speechless, instead nodding slowly, and running into the back room to fetch some ale. Her thoughts are racing. What sort of purpose did Eleanor Lovett have, coming to her, after so many years? She could guess, surely. But why would a woman like her need that sort of thing?

Hustling back to the front area, she sees that Mrs. Lovett has made herself at home, putting her feet up on another empty chair, and fussing with a small flower arrangement on the table. Upon Alaizabel's return, however, her look changes from a quiet, musing expression to one of business-like seriousness. She sits straight, staring at Mrs. Mooney directly, and folds her hands.

"I s'pose you know why I'm 'ere, then."

"I reckon I don't, Nellie. Lord above, how'd you...? We all thought--"

"-- I am in need of a weapon, Alaizabel. And yer the best one for the job."

Mrs. Alaizabel Mooney drops the mug of ale, and it clangs to the floor, spilling the alcohol all over her shoes, and the floor. Her heart pounds, and a sudden wave of regret fills her. She sneers, turning back around and proceeding to knead the dough on her shop counter vigorously, as if trying to exorcise demons from it. She shakes her head.

"No, no. You know, as well as anyone...I no longer make that sort of thing. I took an oath. My husband..."

"So, he used your knives to kill all those poor girls. He was daft in the head and--"

"No! No. It was my fault..." Alaizabel's eyes fall to the floor, and she feels tears forming. Her Thaniel, her love...Why had he descended into madness? Her love should have been enough, but--

Mrs. Lovett stands, reaching down and picking up the empty pint of ale. She frowns, a strange light coming to her eye as she takes the drinking cup to Alaizabel's counter, setting it down loudly. The clank of the metal is too resounding in the room; the tinny ring wavers as Alaizabel stares at this woman in front of her...She is not Eleanor Lovett, certainly.

This woman looks like Mrs. Lovett, but her eyes are cold, and full of fury. Her shoulders are stiff, and seem ready to shy away from touch, her lips set in a tight-lipped expression of determined purpose. Not the same as the bright patron of her rival shop, whose smile lit up rooms, and whose humor and innovative thinking had made her well-liked throughout this quarter of London, even with such horrible pies.

There is a almost invisible struggle in this woman, between the resourceful, generally upbeat Mrs. Lovett of now, and this icy, shell of a woman. There is the look of revenge, a sparkle in the eyes, gleeful at the thought of blood split, and a sadness, a longing for what once was. She has had everything taken away from her.

And Alaizabel Mooney understands.

"Yer gonna kill 'im. Sweeney T--"

"_Do not say that name. _Do not even think about it. He..." At this, she pauses to run a hand through her tangled mess of hair (at least this hasn't changed), a pained look on her pale features. Collecting herself, Mrs. Lovett leans forward, jaw set.

"If you won't agree to make me one...I'll take one for myself, and leave you less than at your best. And you can trust my word on that."

The widowed Mrs. Mooney sighs, sticking the knife into the table, shaking her head. Times have not been kind to her, and have been even less merciful to this woman, who had been her friend, once. There was a time, that she recalls, when Edward was only about three, sleeping in Albert's old chair, as she was sitting in the parlor of Nellie Lovett's house, the two of them laughing and laughing, sipping gin and splitting a small box of toffees. Back when Albert Lovett had been alive, a skilled butcher, and a good man. Back in the days when her own husband's eyes were still lit with kindness, and love, and his heart had not blackened, spreading a sickness of the mind into his limbs and face, making him grey and cruel. In the time when everyone was happy, and London was bright.

She too had loved a murderer. And although she'd probably never know, Mrs. Mooney knew that her friend and rival still held him in some sort of regard. She always would.

The thing with a man like that was that they never left, and however briefly their hands touched yours, however quick and hasty the kisses were, and the words of love, their burning eyes, full of wicked things and hate, those eyes never left you, even when you sat in the dark, reeling from the force of all that love. Two shining lights in pitch black, beckoning for you to follow. No-one could help loving who they loved, Mrs. Mooney had concluded long ago.

Turning to Mrs. Lovett, she nods curtly, in acknowledgment.

"My past as a weapons maker obviously precedes me...I will have your set ready in two months. Until then...I suggest you prepare yourself for what you have to do. And I have just the teacher for the job."

Nellie looks up, curious.

"Edward...?" She asks, seeming not at all surprised.

Mrs. Mooney smiles at the thought of her brilliant son, the apple of her eye. "Edward," she confirms.

-----------------------------------------------------------

The ocean is loud in his ears, as he stands in the sand, bare feet tingling at such a sensation.

Sweeney Todd was more used to feeling hard, hot dirt beneath his bare feet, than soft sand. Australia had been too hot, and his legs had suffered, the scorching earth burning the soles of his feet, and numbing them. He had hated walking, at the prison camp.

Today, it is a cold January morning. The sun is obscured by many rain clouds, only visible as a line of light on the ocean's horizon. Folding his arms, Sweeney looks back and sees his boots, nestled in the sand a few yards away. He thinks briefly about returning inside, but then decides against it. Why should he, when the wind is so cold, it tingles his skin, waking him up from slumber and whipping his hair about? Today should be good, he thinks.

But he is distracted.

He did not think being distracted would be such a problem, now that the Judge is dead, and his thoughts of revenge are sliding away, freeing his brain up for new thoughts, new questions. Today, he ponders _her_.

Brown hair, brown eyes, and the pale skin. She was almost frail, now that he thought of it. Like something about to break. Perhaps she seemed to unreachable, so out of range of his violence and rage, that she had appeared invincible. Of course, she wasn't. She had died.

"Nearly," he corrects himself, and the idea makes his heart pound, and his worry to increase. How could one deal with such a situation?

The best idea he could come up with was to do nothing; after all, she knew nothing about where he was living, or how to get here. Or even if he was in the country at all. He really needn't worry...But Sweeney Todd worried all the same, for it was in his nature to do so.

How would she react, upon waking up, and realizing how she had got there?

He imagines her heart would break, if it had not already broken, that night, five years before. Trying to kill the woman who loves you was definitely not a good way to leave a person...He imagines she would be furious with him.

Sweeney Todd's mouth turns downward in a scowl of discontent; he dislikes the thought of her being upset with him immensely, perhaps out of a natural habit. She would always scold him when he didn't eat the food she gave him or didn't sleep all night. Frowning, she would gaze at him, disappointed and not amused. And he would feel guilt, for making her worry so, for making her fret all night, when she worked all day.

Of course, this was only during rare moments of clarity when he noticed the others around him, especially her. An instant where he would forget his thoughts of blood and razors, and remember that there was someone living below who had waited fifteen years for his return, and...

No. No, she had lied, and he had killed Lucy. It was Mrs. Lovett's fault, and she hadn't loved him. Not at all.

_He was dozing in his barber's chair, fitful and sweating, his dreams full of nightmares. Sitting up, eyes wide and heart pounding, he had found a blanket, tucked up to his chin, and a tray of soup and ale, with a side of bread, waiting for him on top of the wooden trunk. _

_Sitting on a stool in front of him, Mrs. Lovett was dozing quietly, her sleep peaceful. _

_He ignores the food, and lies back down, pushing the blanket away. But as he closes his eyes, he can hear the rustle of her skirt, and a warm hand reach up, pulling the cloth back up to cover his shoulders. _

_The hand gingerly touches his cheek, fingers caressing the jawline, delicately, as if handling china. A whispered good night, and she's gone._

_This is what it must feel like to have someone who cares for you, if he could feel anything at all._

Sweeney Todd sits cross-legged in the sand, head in his hands, trying to banish these reminders away from his thoughts.

Try as he might, she never seems to go away. Even in death, the woman insists on interrupting every moment of peace.

He curses, and the waves crash on the sand, covering the sound.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Edward Mooney sits in his chair in his bedroom above the bakehouse, staring hard at the contraption before him.

A master technician, aside from simply being good with his hands, Edward has always enjoyed tinkering with little gears and bolts.

This is his greatest work, though, he thinks, reaching for a wrench. A metal frame of spindly wires, tightly wound together, overlapping and crossed with another to form a series of small pulleys, each responding precisely and intricately. A leather lining on the inside of the frame, and straps to hold the thing in place, and at the end, the wires end in sculpted iron fingers, with scissors in place between the ring finger and the smallest, the middle finger and the index finger, and another between the index digit and the thumb.

A masterpiece.

And each pair of scissors in interchangeable with any other tool, or knife of sharp object. Even, perhaps, once he makes the proper modifications, pens, pencils, tea cups, or gardening tools.

_The possibilities are endless._

Edward is startled by the sound of shoes on the stairs leading up to his attic room in the stable that he and his mother converted into a bakehouse and ironworks. Although, the anvil and the fireplace had long since been covered in dust. His mother, a master blacksmith, had specialized in knives and butcher equipment for many years, but had always kept her identity secret from her customers. Edward had always thought it was the taboo of being a woman; it was not proper for a wife to be a blacksmith, more skilled than any man could hope to be. Then again, he had walked the streets, and seen such worse professions for women to hold. His mother only made knives for her dear son now, and he hadn't asked for any new ones since eight years ago, when on his eighteenth birthday, he had received a present of an entire set of butcher's knives and tools from his only parent, who had smiled and told him that since she was making them for him, and she knew her dearest son would never use them for violence, she did not consider it breaking her vow to never manufacture a killing tool ever again.

The shoes make softer steps than his mother's do, and Edward straightens in his chair, his leather boots squeaking as he shifts, trying to work kinks out of his shoulders, which have been hunched over his new gloved scissor-hands for about a half hour now. His black hair falls in his eyes, and he gives a jerk of his head, flipping it back, away from his face. The door gives a screech on its hinges (he reminds himself to replace these as soon as possible) and in walks Mrs. Eleanor Lovett.

His usually emotionless face quickly brightens, and he gives her a small smile.

"I was sure you'd come back," he whispers, "I knew...you weren't dead." He has never been good at speaking loudly, even around such people as Mrs. Lovett, who he considers a friend, as well as his pupil. At this, she chuckles, and sits down on a fruit crate he has opposite his work desk, eying the scissor-hand device.

"Yeah," she drawls, "I'm lucky to be alive, I think. I dunno what really happened, or anything; the doctor who treated me, I didn't really get to speak with 'im about it all...But, you always did think on the brighter side, Edward. And you're the only one what believed I'd come back."

Edward nods, continuing with his work. The spring in-between the wrist and palm is too tight...His thoughts roam elsewhere, and pausing, he throws her a curious gaze.

"I knew...you'd come back," he murmurs, reaching for a small coil of metal spring in his box of tools, "But...I think...I know why. And I don't know...if I should help you."

She's here, he assumes, to learn how to kill Sweeney Todd, formerly known as Benjamin Barker. Edward himself was only about six when the man was taken away, but he can recall the fuss that came with the man's removal from Britain. How Mrs. Lovett (a widow of about three years then) had shown an odd indifference to his mother's insistence of discussing the news of it; how she had gazed up at the ceiling, eyes pained with loss much more keen than the loss she had showed when Mr. Lovett had finally succumbed to death.

Yes, Edward had always been observant, and he had known, very early in his life, that Mrs. Lovett was madly in love with Mr. Barker, or Mr. Todd, or whoever. The man's name did not matter, really, for his student loved the man, not his title, and she had loved him unconditionally. And now...now that he's almost killed her, left her dying in the bakehouse, bloody and in agony, he knows that she will try and kill him. Revenge is such an unpleasant thing.

Her hand, thin, but strong, reaches across the table, and grips his, her eyes pleading.

"Edward...I've been trying to run away from my ghosts all of my live. And when they finally caught up with me...Well, I nearly died. This has to stop, and in order for me to end it...He has to die. I...I can't go on, with him out there, ready to pop up and kill me for good...I can't stand him, in my thoughts and dreams. Surely you know..."

"Yes, well..." Edward mumbles, looking away.

His father. Thaniel Mooney, better known as the Black Knife, a serial murder who had passed many a trait onto his son; the art of knife-work, patience, and memories of the madman who had retreated into his mind, and had not been able to escape. Edward's only fear, the only real terror he has always been so cautious to avoid is the fear of becoming like his father.

He recalls, as a small boy, his father taking him to an alleyway, grabbing up a beautiful bird from the fence to their right, and drawing out his knife...The alley had flooded with the crimson blood from the small thing's body, and his father had looked up at him, smiling as if the two were standing in a field of wildflowers on the most perfect day.

_"Look, Edward," he had whispered, rasping, a madman's voice, even then. "Look at how beautiful it is."_

He had ran home, and cried, not knowing exactly why, but knowing a deep sadness had filled him, seeing that pretty yellow bird, lying there, lifeless.

Never able to fly.

Edward bites his lip, staring at Mrs. Lovett.

"You convinced my mother...Didn't you?"

"Yes. I was hoping you'd do this favor, for me, but I've got orders from your mum. She wants you to help me, while she's makin' me the stuff."

He sighs. Mother...She is good to him, in the way that over-protective mothers are, and he loves his mother...But, she can be so foolish. How could she allow Mrs. Lovett to do this? Not a care for he well-being, or Mr. Todd's? What happened love, and forgiveness?

Edward picks up the wrench, and the wire clippers, snapping off the too-tight coil, and delicately replacing it. Mrs. Lovett sits, silent, and somewhat fascinated by his intricate work. Finally, satisfied with the new spring mechanism, he looks up.

"You can stay in the guest room, above the shop...Or...At your shop, if you're not too afraid of ghosts, I suppose. I'll start tomorrow...Right now, I'd like to finish this--"

Nodding, she whispers her thanks. She beams, and stands, bowing to him before turning about and exiting as quickly as she came in.

The people around me, Edward thinks. They are all as fleeting as the wind.

He slips his hand into the device, and moves each individual digit. The scissors make a swish noise as he moves his hands, satisfying and crisp.

The sound of success.

Proud of his handiwork, he strides over to the faded curtain hanging in the window, and frowns. He has never liked them...

There is a flurry of motion and snips, the sounds of fabric tearing, and the soft sigh of the cloth pieces falling to the floor. Edward's face twists in concentration, and his hand moves, fast and in light, curving motions, precise. Stepping back, he smiles.

In the curtain, the silhouette of a bird is cut, flying over the sea, and a sun sets behind it, grey light from London's skies illuminating the cut shapes. The bird is soaring over the waves, wings spread wide.

Free, and unharmed.

_AN: Sorry if this seemed really repetitive...Mrs. Lovett has everyone doing her work for her, ha ha._

_It'll get better in the next chapter. We'll learn more about Edward and Alaizabel Mooney._

_And if you didn't guess Edward's origin...You are obviously not of this Earth. _

_Alaizabel and Thaniel are names of the main protagonists in The Haunting of Alaizabel Cray by Chris Wooding, a fantastic book that takes place at the same time as Sweeney Todd. Sort of a tribute to those characters. _

_I might re-write this...I'm not too fond of it._

Next chapter:

Part IV: Revenge Isn't a Straight Line


	5. Part IV: Revenge Isn't a Straight Line

_AN: Onto part four! Yay!_

_Lots of deep thinking (ha, I almost wrote Depp thinking) in this chapter, from all our characters. _

_Edward Mooney's appearance and character are loosely based on Edward from the Tim Burton movie Edward Scissorhands (which also starred Johnny Depp). _

_It's raining too much where I live...I can't go outside, it's too stormy! So I'm inside, writing more...I guess it's a good thing._

_I decided to go for it...And include actual fighting in the story. I was a bit tentative, but hey, I'm already taking so many liberties...Although, the only that I can think of when reading this is the song "Knife Fight" by Lemon Demon: Knife fight! You're gonna fight with a knife! Knife fight! You're gonna fight for your life!...So. Um. Yes._

_Enjoy!_

**"I am waiting for something to go wrong, I am waiting for familiar resolve...I am waiting for another repeat, another diet fed by crippling defeat...And I am waiting for that sense of relief, I am waiting for you to flee the scene, as if you held in your hand the smoking gun, and on the floor lay the one you said you loved..."**

**--- Expo '86 by Death Cab for Cutie**

**Part IV: Revenge Isn't a Straight Line**

The morning is usually his favorite time of day.

Toby sits at the table, spooning porridge into his mouth slowly. It is early, usually early for the boy to up, and eating, but Sweeney Todd disregards it, and sits down opposite him, pouring himself a cup of gin. Toby eyes him.

"S'not good to drink so early in the mornin'," he comments, almost as an afterthought.

Sweeney places the bottle back down with more force than necessary, and smiles sarcastically.

"I realize that," he snaps. "Nevertheless, I am drinking, and it is early. I have a headache, so you may save your lectures, and allow me the relief of alcohol. Thank you."

Shrugging, Toby simply continues to eat.

After minutes of silence (the boy knows now that his guardian is usually quiet, and dislikes conversation), there's a cough, and Mr. Todd sets down the glass, wincing from the strength of the drink.

"Why're you up so early, anyway?" He nods to the breakfast in front of Toby.

"First day of work, at the butcher's," he replies, sitting back in the chair, and threading fingers through the white hair on his head.

The oddity of having such hair has long since passed for them both, and Toby seems to have taken it in stride, simply disregarding the use of hats or hoods to hide his strange appearance. Today, however, he's dressed in uniform: white slacks, white shirt and an apron, all cleaned precisely, and bright as anything. The boy looks eerie, like the dead.

Standing, he tucks in his shirt in the back, and puts on his cap.

"Well, I'm off," he mutters, buttoning the two top buttons on his shirt.

"Stop." The voice is commanding, and Toby turns, smiling weakly, to see Sweeney Todd, staring at him. He points, accusing.

"Where," he says through gritted teeth, "Did you get that?"

Toby's fingers close over the necklace around his neck, pulling it out slowly from under his shirt.

It's only a piece of thread, a deep navy blue, but what's hanging at the end of it seems to make the former demon barber's blood boil.

A ring, silver, with a circular red stone in the center. It's obviously not an expensive thing, but it's pretty, in the way that all jewelry is pretty.

"She wore that," he says, "I gave it to her, for her birthday, years ago...When I was still--"

Stopping, he stands. Toby backs to the door, seeming fearful.

"Mr. Todd...I don't mean any harm...I wasn't stealing, I...I just..." His face falls.

"I miss 'er. It reminds me...of when we were working at the shop. She showed this to me, once. Said you gave it to her. Best present she ever got..."

"Go," Sweeney says, gesturing to the door, his sudden rage dissolving as quickly as it formed. "You wouldn't want to be late, lad."

Toby frowns, concerned, but says nothing, instead turning and hopping out the door, setting off at a run toward town.

Sweeney Todd sits back down, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

He forgets, sometimes, that the boy doesn't know why she was killed. Treacherous...

_"Here you are, Mrs. Lovett."_

_"Mr. Barker...you shouldn't be getting me anything, you're a married man. 'Sides, I'm not worth all that, I know you're not exactly full of money."_

_"I want you to have it. It's your birthday. Lucy was the one who wanted to get you something, actually."_

_Her face as she opens the present is priceless; shock, and then incredible happiness. She hugs him, briefly, before pulling back, and slipping it on her finger. _

_"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you."_

Foolish.

Why would he give her such a thing...?

Ah, Lucy. It had been her idea, was that it? He can't even remember.

Sweeney sighs, fingering a button on his sleeve absentmindedly. When had he started to realize that killing the Judge hadn't completely satisfied him? When had he begun to feel a nagging pain in his head, as if something was not right.

_Something is missing._

Growling in frustration, he pours himself another drink. He should not miss her. Not at all. If anything, he should mourn Lucy, his wife. But...

"She's not my wife...She married Benjamin Barker."

And this, he thinks, is the heart of this problem. Sweeney Todd is nothing like Mr. Barker. Could his wife have loved him, as he is now, if she had been sane? Or would she have been afraid of the man he became?

He knew someone who had loved him, either way.

No. No, she didn't really love him, or Barker, or anyone. Only herself. She wouldn't have lied, if she had loved him...But she could have been telling the truth, saying she did it to protect him.

Downing the glass, he massages his temples, trying to chase away these thoughts.

What did it matter anymore, anyway?

She was dead.

Sweeney Todd pours more gin into his glass.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Edward in on his hands and knees a yard away from her, peering around the corner. Mrs. Lovett sighs impatiently.

"I really don't see 'ow this is helping us--"

Holding up a hand for quiet, the young man gets into a crouch, boots making no sound as he shifts slightly, fingers moving in anticipation.

There's a soft clicking of claws on cobblestones, and then, fast as anything, Edward is standing up, a flurry of hissing and scratches in his hands. Wincing, he nods for Nellie to come forward.

Looking sickened, she holds out the burlap sack, and he places the cat inside.

Blood is forming around a new scratch on his face, and she clucks disapprovingly.

"This is awful."

Wiping his mouth, he shrugs his shoulders.

Clad in a leather coat that fits snugly on his thin frame, with intricately belted boots that match it, she's reminded of _him_, despite herself. They look quite a bit alike, with the same mess of black hair, and the dark eyes framed by pale skin.

But her former teacher isn't anything like Sweeney Todd, at least, not exactly.

Quiet and shy, she's known the boy since he was about four, and he's never uttered a word when he's not spoken to. His face is always set in a sad, contemplative expression, mournful almost, and he looks even more pitiful with the scars from the cats now decorating his cheeks and neck.

"I only catch the sick ones," he says, as if it justifies what he does every two weeks when his mother asks him to go out for new ingredients.

"As if that's any comfort," she mutters, retying the sack's string, and handing it back to him quickly.

Edward says nothing, slinging it over his shoulder, and heading back in the direction of the shop. She trails after him, saying nothing.

It's been two weeks, and she has learned nothing new. Of course, she's had time to practice, as Edward sits, making another one of those frightening gloves, commenting on her poor form as she carves the meat he sets before her. He's always quite observant, and she gets nothing past him, but he gets his strict discipline from his mother, Nellie is sure.

She learned from him before, long ago, when Albert died, how to skin any animal placed on her table. But that hasn't made it any less horrifying.

How funny, Mrs. Lovett thinks, that she still is upset by the thought of cutting up a beast for food, but she has little qualms over separating flesh from a man's bones.

"Why d'you want to kill him?"

Stopping, she stares. His face hasn't changed at all, but he stares right back, waiting for her answer.

"I..."

"Do you really want revenge?"

Silence.

Does she want revenge?

_Of course, _is her immediate answer, to herself. What he did...And what she did. Neither is justified reason for murdering someone, is it?

_No, it's not._ He had betrayed her, by tricking her into dancing with him like that, making her believe...believe...

"He said he forgave me...Called me 'love'...I thought..." She chokes on the words, looking down at her feet.

Edward turns his back, continuing, and she stops talking, somewhat irritated that he's not staying to listen to her answer. Following him all the same (she isn't familiar with this area, and she's not looking to be lost), they remain quiet, with only their footsteps echoing through alleyways to interrupt their own thoughts.

Back in the shop, Mrs. Mooney is nowhere to be found, and Edward places the bag on the floor, opening it, and carrying the cat into the small kitchen, where he sets it down, and closes the door.

"You can't run away this...Once you start. Do you understand that?"

She nods. "Yes."

He seems almost disappointed in her, as if this answer is not agreeing with him. Sitting down in a chair, he looks at the window at the empty street, and Mrs. Lovett sits opposite him.

"Revenge," he begins, running one finger across the windowsill, leaving a trail where no dust remained, "Is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest...It's easy to lose your way, Mrs. Lovett...To get lost...To forget what way you came in. I..."

He pauses, looking up at her with those endearing dark eyes.

"I don't want you to get lost in that...Like your Mr. Todd. But...You seem determined to do just that, and..."

He smiles. "I know there's not stopping you. I'll teach you. I suppose I hoped you'd change your mind, these past weeks."

She shakes her head. "You know me, Edward. Stubborn as anything."

"Indeed."

He stands again, and clasps his hands. "We'll get started right now, then."

----------------------------------------------------------------

_"Good mornin', Mr. T. Lookin' gloomy as always, I see. Brought you some breakfast."_

_No answer. He flashes a glance her way, making her heart race for an instant, and then goes back to polishing his razor in silence. She inwardly sighs, but says nothing more._

_"Be sure to eat that, now. You're already thin; We can't have you any worse off, mm?" She runs a hand across his shoulder, squeezing lightly before letting go. _

_Nothing. He never sees her, sees the care, the love. Only those silly razors. These days, she's taken to cursing the day she ever decided to keep them for him, instead of selling them off. _

_She wants him to be happy, and he could be, with her._

_If only he would see they were right for each other._

----------------------------------------------------------------

It's not hot outside, but Nellie is heating up anyways, breathing fast from the work Edward has put her through. She is a woman of limited wind, but Edward seems to disregard this, and simply says, in a monotone voice, unforgiving:

"Again."

Standing, she groans. "Can't we take a breather, Ed? I'm too--"

He's fast, surprisingly so, and there's a knife, sliding inches away from her cheek, the ringing of metal in her ear, but she saw the blur of black leather flowing toward her like water just in time, ducking down and to the right, whipping her arm back to collide with his already-there blade, the two silver lines colliding with a slight clang, and she's pushing his arm back, getting distance in-between them.

Running forward, she moves, mind dictating the 'left, down, up, left, right, go back, go back, go back' as her arms and feet obey. Finally, she spots an opening, and feels relief, imagining the sweet relaxation of all her muscles and bones once this over. Her legs hurt from maneuvering in such complex patterns, so soon after doing nothing at all but lie there in a hospital bed.

The knife she holds flies down, up and it's at his neck.

"Point," she cries, victorious, breathing labored. Stepping shakily, she sits down on a crate in the small back courtyard of the pie shop's property. Surrounded on all sides by a high wooden fence, it end with the bakehouse, and behind her, the shop, and it's upstairs flat. There's a small garden patch, weeded and full of tomatoes, red and enticing. She looks away, sickened by the color.

Edward's boots make a jingling noise, buckles colliding with metal studs, running up to almost his knees. They are silly looking, and she's sure on anyone other than him, she would laugh, but on her teacher, they seem to fit.

He sits next to her, not at all out of wind, and she gives a breathy laugh between gasps for air.

"How," gasp, "D'you," gasp, "Do it? Not get tired?"

"Practice. I'm younger than you, that might be what it is."

She hits him lightly. "Remember, of course, that I'm the one who won. Respect for yer elders, and all that."

"I never said you were old...Only that I'm younger. And yes, you did win. You're improving every day...Almost up to your old form."

Oh, yes, almost. Almost.

"You know...Every time you've come here to learn from me...It's been because of Sweeney Todd."

She winces at the name, but is too tired to be angry with him. Instead, she says nothing.

Edward continues. "That woman...Lucy Barker, she was why you came here, wasn't it? After she poisoned herself, after the Judge--"

"Yes."

"You were afraid he'd come for you, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"Was that the real reason?"

She pauses, twirling the silver blade in her hands, staring down. _These are my friends, see how they glisten? See this one shine..._ Oh, he had always been such a fool for those razors, hadn't he?

"I dunno," she muses. "I think...I wanted so badly to kill that damned Judge...He took everything away from...from Mr. Barker. I don't know anymore, Edward, really. That was a long time ago."

"Don't you mean Sweeney Todd?" He presses, leaning nearer to her. "You're saying you'd kill for him? You love him that much?"

She gets to her feet quickly, ignoring the painful protest of her legs, and her shortness of breath, head racing with such fury. What nerve this boy had, to ask her about...

"_Loved. _I loved him," she retorts, her tone icy, and laced with malice. "There's quite a difference. I loved him, yes. I _would_ have killed for him. I did one worse though, didn't I? Baking men into pies...But no, not anymore. I will kill for him...But only if it's him I'm killing."

She stares at him, glaring. "Do not ever say you know me better than I know myself. Do not ever say I love Sweeney Todd again."

She lets the knife drop to the ground with a loud clang, and walks back into the pie shop.

Edward stares at the knife on the ground, and sighs, shaking his head. She says she knows herself, but...

He knows, somewhere deep inside, she still loves him. He has to believe that she still loves him.

He cannot imagine what she would do to herself, by killing Sweeney Todd. He simply can't.

Reaching down, Edward picks up the discarded knife.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Johanna sits in her bedroom (rather, their bedroom, hers and Anthony's), tapping her pen on a sheet of parchment.

She always has thought exactly how to word a letter, before writing it, a force of habit she no doubt picked up from her "father".

_When composing a letter, dear child, one must always think upon what you are going to say, before committing it to paper. After all, once the pen has written it, you cannot take it back, can you?_

She turns her gaze to the window, open, with fluttering curtains, looking out upon Venice, Italy. It was a lovely place, Venice. But today, its beautiful architecture and lovely streets cannot cheer her.

She has been thinking quite a bit, lately, about her real parents.

She wonders what they were like. What were their professions? What did they look like? Were they good people? Why had she been left with that horrible Judge Turpin?

Why did they leave her? Hadn't they wanted to keep her?

The thought of her real parents had reminded her then, as she had sat in her room, that afternoon during her lunch hour rest from the work at the hotel, of her wedding day, and in particular, Mr. Todd's reaction to it.

He had smiled at her, and told her: _"You look as lovely as your mother did, I'm sure."_

She had thought nothing of the comment, assuming he had simply meant that he thought she looked as lovely as her mother (or any mother) would have, during her wedding ceremony. But thinking now...Could it be that Mr. Todd had known, even vaguely, her real parents?

And this was why she was writing to them both, Mr. Todd, and Tobias Lovett, his son. At least, she had always thought him to be the man's son, though he showed little affection to the boy. Anthony had spoken of a horrible tragedy; that while Mr. Todd had been out with Toby, and Johanna had waited in the barbershop, all alone, the Judge had been assaulted by a murderer, and then, the same man had slain Mrs. Lovett, who Anthony seemed sure was Toby's mother, as well as Mr. Todd's love. Mr. Todd had been wrongly accused of committing such crimes, for which he had vehemently denied any involvement in. The two had since moved to the countryside, south of London, to seek peace and rest from their loss. Mrs. Lovett, however, was never mentioned again in the papers, or by word of mouth. People seemed to think she was some sort of witch; Anthony denied this as well, saying that Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett both were wonderful people, of the utmost character.

"I cannot say for certain...But they seemed rather close, for neighbors. I dare say they were in love, maybe," he had said.

She wasn't sure what to think of that; Mr. Todd had no wedding ring, and Tobias did not bare any resemblance to the former, but in all honesty, it did matter much to her. It was a good thing, Mr. Todd had done, taking care of that poor boy, no matter if they were related.

What she did know was that the one thing they did share in common was this Mrs. Lovett. Toby had written to her every two weeks for the past five years, telling her all about their new home, Mr. Todd's barbershop in town, and Toby's learning to write. He had become a very good letter-writer, in fact, and she looked forward to receiving his news, even if it was brief, and about nothing at all. Occasionally, Mr. Todd would write a letter to her as well, and include it in with Toby's, but it was always asking about her own health, and welfare, never his.

He seemed quite the selfless man, Mr. Todd. Quiet, and almost mournful.

She wonders if it has to do with the loss of Mrs. Lovett. Yes, that must be why he is so sad.

Picking up her pen, thus inspired, she beings to write.

_Dear Toby, and Mr. Todd:_

_Thank you for your letter. I am always so glad to hear from you. It something I look forward to, every other week. _

_I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that nothing has gone wrong these past weeks. I assure you, Anthony and I are just fine, however, I wondered if I might inquire to something important._

_Now that the Judge is dead, and I have inherited his estate, I have done everything in my power as his heir to track down my real parents. However, I am afraid my efforts have been in vain; there is no trace of any parent, or guardian. _

_Mr. Todd, as a man who has known London and its occupants for many years, I wondered if perhaps you knew either of my parents? I would not hold it against you, if you had hid this knowledge from me, for I would understand that you wanted to protect me. However, I am an adult now. I feel that I must know the real identities of my mother and father, if only to rest my thoughts at last. _

_I also would like to write to you, and inquire to your feelings upon staying with Anthony and myself in Venice for a month. We have many rooms, for we live in a flat in what is a lovely hotel in the center of the city, and as an employee of the owners, I'm sure they wouldn't mind giving you both rooms for a lowered price. I hope you consider the offer, and will reply with your answer._

_Thank you, and best wishes,_

_Johanna Hope_

Sealing the letter, she smiles. Perhaps she'll walk down to the post office later, and send it in.

There is a creak at the door, and turning, she finds Anthony standing there, looking tired from working at the docks.

"Hello Anthony," she says, standing to give him a kiss.

"Johanna," he replies, grinning. "I'm off the rest of the day. Would you like to go downstairs, and ask for some lunch? I was thinking of going to look at the shops, in the square, after."

"I would love to, but I'm working until dinner. But..." She holds out the letter.

"Could you give this to the postman? It's for Mr. Todd and Toby."

His face falls as he takes the letter, eyes darkening. "It's about your parents, then? You're going to ask him."

"Yes."

He nods, and then kisses her on the cheek, heading for the door, promising he'll be back by supper. She waves goodbye.

Anthony stares at the letter in his hands, searching half-heartedly for a postman as he walks the Venice streets.

This business of finding Johanna's parents has made him anxious. What if Johanna will want to live with them? Meet them?

He is so afraid of losing her. He is so scared of having her stolen away, or worse, locked up again. If there is one thing he knows, he is certain being a prisoner would break Johanna's heart (and probably his as well). He knows he cannot live without her by his side.

Her parents...finding them might change that, couldn't it?

The thought makes him unbearably worried.

A postman is cycling up the street, and he's almost half the mind to crumple the letter up, but...

Johanna would be so upset.

Anthony hands the letter to the man, watching him cycle away. Turning toward the market, he vows to keep his wife safe.

She is so beautiful...So pretty, prettier than any flower in the world. He loves her, with all of his heart, all of his being.

And he will do anything to protect her from the evils of this world.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_AN: Boy, it's really raining outside my house..._

_I wanted to show Mrs. Lovett's motives behind learning how to shank people (hahahahaha). Because it's not like anyone really wakes up one day, and says: "Hey, I wanna learn how to stab people. YEAH!" _

_Sweeney is beginning to feel a bit of regret, we might say, huh?_

_And Anthony's shaping up to be a bit psycho...As if his freaky face wasn't enough (I mean, really, come on, he looks like an insane stalker when he's singing "Johanna" in the movie). _

Next chapter: Painful Memories


	6. Part V: Painful Memories

_AN: A kind reviewer, Princess Moogle, pointed out that Dublin is in Ireland. Not Scotland. _

_I am an idiot, and I apologize for this error._

_It's changed now. _

_Also...If there is any errors in times, dates, months, etc. It would be lovely if you could tell me. As the writer, I tend to gloss over important things when proof-reading (which I actually don't do...ahah...It's bad)._

_Any continuity errors, let me know!_

_Chapter six, coming at you!_

_Mrs. Lovett's soreness and exhaustion from shanking it out with dear Edward was taken from a real life experience, seeing how I'm about to pass out from workouts to prep for swim team...Stupid stairs...stupid weights...stupid...ugh. _

_This is where it starts to get interesting! Yeah! Because instead of people walking, sitting down and just plain talking, we have actual! movement! and plot! Woo!_

_Enjoy, as always!_

**"It all comes down to this...Your left hand of termination...This is a stand-off, a time to shiver: stand before your executioner. Take one, take caution, take two, take me out. A clumsy reaction...I won't take cover. Take one for you...**

**Heads up, I'm falling, heads up, it hurts, heads up, I'm coming down with the sweetest void in me.**

**Tips and toes, airborne touching ground, take a deep breath...and flood with you.**

**Take myself to fit you in, always waiting, longing for a place to be a broken heart disease."**

**--- Vasilis Lolos**

**Part V: Painful Memories **

They sit at the rickety wooden table, covered in scores of knife carvings, some seeming intricate and beautiful and others angry, deep scars.

Mrs. Lovett is seated, stiff, and exhausted, on one side, and Mrs. Mooney, sitting next to Edward, is seated on the other.

Both Mooneys seem grim, and somewhat sad.

Nellie shifts, half-heartedly, wincing as her shoulders ache from the movement, trying her best to escape the gazes from the table's other end. She can't remember being so tired...If only she could just lie down and sleep...But she hasn't been able to sleep for days, and doubts that even now, she could rest. There are too many thoughts, racing through her head, for her to think about taking a little nap, and besides, she should be more alert. After all, today is the day.

Mrs. Mooney reaches down to her right, throwing a leather bundle onto the table with a dull thud. It's odd, now, Mrs. Lovett notes, how old and tired she seems, more so than before.

Alaizabel Mooney unties the strings on the wrapped package, folding back its layers to reveal three knives, each of different length and type.

"There is a all-purpose combat knife," she says, pointing as she talks, "An extremely sharp culinary knife, and of course, my specialty, the knife with a hooked end."

Her eyes darken, and she stares past Mrs. Lovett, out to London's streets.

"I have completed doing what I made oath to never do again..."

Edward breathes, sitting straighter, eyes flickering to his mother briefly, full of concern.

"Nellie..." Mrs. Mooney sighs. "I've done this because, philosophically, I'm sympathetic to your aim. I can tell you, with no ego...These knives are my finest work."

"Go, now, Mrs. Lovett. Good luck."

She takes the bundle in her hands, and bows low. She is not so consumed by revenge that she is unaware of this sacrifice, the significance of this favor to her. Unlike some, she thinks, recalling so many times when Mr. Todd had been staring out that window upstairs, not hearing a word, not understanding anything she said, his head too full of blood and hate.

_I'm not like that. I won't be like him..._

Edward coughs, a signal for Mrs. Lovett to remain in her seat.

"Ma'am," he begins slowly, mulling over the words, "I have known you for a very long time. You are my best pupil, and I like to consider you a friend. I know that this mission is something you won't back down from, but..."

He stares hard at the carvings in the wood in front of him, eyes reflecting an inner conflict.

"As your friend and teacher...I am worried for you, Mrs. Lovett. Revenge isn't something a person comes out of without a scratch...I know. We both know."

His mother pats his shoulder.

"You choose this path, and there's no going back. Before you leave, I would ask of you to think upon Mr. Todd's own demise at the hands of vengeance...And think on what you truly want, now that you are awake. I will not be angry if you still choose to kill him, but...I would hope you would see that killing him would hurt you just as much as him being alive..."

Edward's face darkens, and he looks away. Mrs. Lovett continues to the door, the knives wrapped in leather, resting in her arms, and bows low to him as well, smiling softly as she brings his chin up to look her in the eye.

"You're a good friend, Edward," she says, "But I'm afraid I've made my decision. Thank you both, for all of this. I don't imagine you'll see me again."

She leaves them, like the wind leaves the trees behind, moving on, unstoppable, to its next destination, and Mrs. Mooney and Edward sit still, like those abandoned trees, pondering exactly what will happen next.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sweeney Todd is sitting in the small, poorly furnished parlor when Toby arrives back from town, massaging his temples, a look of great concentration marring his usually statuesque face, so often set in an expression so immovable to be thought akin to stone.

Brow furrowed, he re-reads the single page letter, eyes flashing as they scan across the so familiar handwriting of his daughter's (eerily similar to his own neat, intricately executed scroll).

Tobias slides into the settee, a faded old blue thing that the two of them had bought from a man being evicted from his home in London for a laughably cheap price.

"Wot's wrong? You look like you've just got a letter saying someone died," he says, eying Mr. Todd curiously.

In these five years living with the former demon barber of Fleet Street, Toby has seen very little of his infamous murderous grins and glares, and has instead been witness to the actions and expressions of a man who has lost all that he held dear. Perhaps this has made him less frightened of the man, and more curious as to his motives and feelings in everything. Toby has always wondered:

When revenge has been carried out, what else is there to do?

Mr. Todd is a living, breathing answer to that question, and if anything, Toby will stay to see the answer carried out to its end.

Of course, he's come to think of him as something of a father, or older brother, if only because he has always thought, even now, that Mrs. Lovett was as close to a mother as he's ever had, and with her being so in love with Mr. Todd, Toby has resolved that it is only fitting that he think of the man as his father. He dares not call him "father", though, for fear of how he'd react.

But Mr. Todd is an alright dad to Johanna, even if she doesn't know that he is her father. They bear little resemblance, and when Toby asked about this, Mr. Todd had said, voice hoarse and full of wistfulness:

"She takes after her mother."

Toby had decided that this was a subject too touchy to ever bring up again, a wise decision for such a young boy.

But now, he's not really a boy any longer. After all, he's sixteen. Nearly a man, or so he believes. Mr. Todd has commented on this belief several times, preaching of the importance of experience, not age, as he peers at Toby over the pages of a serial paper, or over the silver edge of his lovely razors.

Scooting closer to his companion, Toby peers over Mr. Todd's shoulder.

Instantly recognizing it to be from Johanna, his face pales, his mouth dropping open in horror.

"Johanna...She...she ain't dead, is she?"

"No," Mr. Todd says slowly. "No, no-one is dead, Toby..."

He offers Toby the letter, looking resigned and desperately lost. Taking the parchment, he reads quickly, murmuring aloud under his breath the letter's contents, and then setting in down on the seat beside him.

"She wants to meet you. Isn't that a good thing? I mean, she wants to meet her parents, but that's you, so..."

"No," he repeats. "No, I don't want her to know...I mean, what would she say? I think she'd despise me, for lying to her all this time."

"She wouldn't, not Johanna. She's a right good lady, she is, and we both know that. Got a good 'ead on her shoulders. She wouldn't hate you, Mr. Todd," Toby insists, hoping perhaps that if he could convince Mr. Todd of this, than Johanna would surely want to visit here often, and perhaps, they could come to Venice.

Sweeney Todd sighs, looking frustrated. "She would've...Mrs. Lovett...She would've known what to do about this..."

Toby stops, hand going immediately to his necklace, fingering the silver ring, remembering her. They share the grief of her unfortunate death, one of the few things they do have in common. He nods, agreeing. Of the three of them, Mrs. Lovett had been the decisive one, the organizer, the one who had been able to choose quickly and easily a plan that would benefit them most. She would know just what to do in this situation...

Toby pauses. What would she have done?

"I think...I think you should tell her...That Benjamin Barker is dead. That 'er parents died. They're dead. That way, you can tell 'er as much as you like, but you don't hafta say yer Mr. Barker, you know? Only that you knew 'im. And...and...Mrs. Lovett...she woulda thought that'd be best too, I think."

There is a minute of silence, and then Sweeney Todd turns, giving Toby a look of approval.

Nodding, he rises.

"Tobias."

"Sir?"

"Pack your bags. We are going to Venice."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mrs. Lovett gazes up reproachfully at the sign above her shop, tutting disapprovingly at the peeling paint, and faded letters. She had always wanted to hire someone to repaint the sign...In her absence, the outside of the shop had fallen into disrepair, and craning her neck, on tiptoes, she could see the interior was covered in dust.

_"You certainly don't bother keeping it tidy," he had commented dryly. _

_"Times is hard, Mr. T. I try my best..."_

A beggar is sitting in front of the door, snoring quietly. Clearing her throat loudly, he jumps, looking up with bleary eyes, half-awake.

"S'cuse me..." she says stiffly, gazing down on him with a look of irritation, "Yer lying in front of my establishment. Now, this here shop might not be in business, but I'm not keen to the idea of your like loitering about. Kindly remove your body from my property."

He stumbles as he gets to his feet, and she wrinkles her nose in disgust at the stench coming off him, stepping back to get farther away. Turning, he points to her.

"Yer a servant of th' devil, if yer really 'er. That baker-woman. She's a witch, I tell yer. Cursed this place 'ere, so's no-one dares go in, for fear of gettin' baked into a pie, or gutted by the Devil hisself, that Sweeney Todd or what have yeh. But if yeh aren't 'er...Well, I'd not be going in there, ma'am. S'cursed to house Hell on Earth, I say. And--"

"--Yes, yes, alright. I'll be very careful, thank you. Now, if you'll be goin'..."

The beggar pauses, finger still pointing almost like a schoolteacher, giving a lecture, and then, seeming to forget what he was ranting about, he turns away, and shuffles off.

She sighs. London had been so lovely, once. Now every other house was home to a demon, a witch, some silly curse.

Mrs. Lovett did not personally attend church. She did not like the idea of sitting in a pew, stewing in your own guilt, looking around at others and wondering what sort of sins they had committed. People went to church to relieve their regret over all their sins. Mrs. Lovett felt that forgiveness wasn't needed; when one was doing what they could to survive, sinning seemed almost a necessity to live. Practical, that's what she was. And she didn't see anything practical in sitting in a room, full of all the other suffering people of London, sitting there for an hour or so, thinking back to all the things you had done, feeling downright horrid for all of it. Wasting her Sunday away in some small room with a man droning about repenting wasn't pleasant to her, and as such, she spent Sunday cleaning the shop, roaming London spending some of the money she had made that week (if any at all), or browsing the various open-air markets that stayed open regardless of the day, and were thusly looked upon as godless.

This was how she had found out about Signor Pirelli and his Miracle Elixir.

And eventually, Toby.

She wonders how he is doing. Whether he lived at all. For all she knew, Mr. Todd could've easily slit the boy's throat after she had fainted, or thrown him into the oven along with those pies. He could have escaped, though, and fumbling about the outside perimeter of the shop, tapping tentatively on the bricks alongside the western wall, underneath the stairs leading up to the old barbershop, Mrs. Lovett hopes that he lived. She imagines him as a doctor's apprentice in some exotic location, tending to the poor and defenseless, a noble, selfless young man who has devoted himself to helping the unfortunate and the weak. Toby seemed just the sort who would grow up to be such a man, if he had survived at all.

There's a sudden change in noises as she taps a dull brick, and feels it wobble under her hand. Grinning, she wiggles a finger into the gap between it and the plaster of the wall, pulling it out to reveal a key. The spare, of course, which she had always hid here, even before Albert had died, even before Benjamin Barker came into her shop, pleading for the room upstairs, and nothing was ever the same.

Slipping back to the side door, she turns the key slowly, heart pounding as she waits for the click of the lock...

The door opens, creaking on its hinges, and she steps inside a world she left five years ago.

It is as if everything has been covered in a layer of frost, preserved carefully, just so, as if she hasn't been gone but five minutes, and came back to find everything had turned grey, a sort of practical joke.

_He sits at the table, back ram-rod straight, jaw set, eyes following her as she bustled about the room, sweeping almost frantically at the dust on the floor. Saying nothing, he simply stares._

_"You want somethin', Mr. Todd?" _

_She looks up, breathing heavily from the exertion of moving in rhythm for such a long period of time. He looks at her quizzically, and then shakes his head. _

_"Only company, I s'pose," he murmurs, and it makes her heart race._

_Toss the cleaning, she'll do it tomorrow. Grabbing the bottle of gin and two glasses, she sits down opposite him, and beams. _

_It can wait, for him. She can wait. _

Turning about in the small front room, she shakes her head, clearing away this pesky memory.

Her heart already feels like it's been broken, and this, these memories, they don't help a thing.

Passing by the counter, the oven and the wash bin, she strides to the parlor, with its garish colored wallpaper, brand new (not singed), a gift for herself when they re-opened the pie shop, selling Mr. Todd's former customers in the form of delicious pastries.

To be honest, she was secretly disgusted with how quickly the denizens of London wolfed down their former fellow sufferers, tasting not the evils and sins of these men, dead and better off for it, but thinking these things sweet, and so wonderful, running down their throats. Gobbling up their brothers and sisters, their friends and neighbors, eating not only their flesh but the darkness inside the heart of every body baked into the fillings, sitting between the crust innocently, to be swallowed by people who would soon be in the bakehouse themselves.

A vicious cycle, for certain.

Now, dressed plainly in the nurse's black dress, she's disgusted by the horrid pattern and color of her parlor's wallpaper, instead of the gluttony of her customers, before.

"Mmm," she hums, thinking of the song Mr. Todd has sung, joyous and pleased.

_The history of the world, my love, is those below serving those up above..._

This place used to be her home. Why was it that now, she can't stand to stay?

His image plagues her far worse than it does anywhere else in London, her mind buzzing with thoughts of Mr. Todd, Mr. Todd, Mr. Todd...

"No!"

A fist pounds into the ugly wallpaper above the mantel, and she lets out a frustrated yell.

It isn't fair, that he is able to take away her home, replacing these once-familiar walls and rooms with a place she doesn't recognize, with memories that she cannot bear to remember...

Running now, she bursts into her own room, and sits down on the bed, where the sheets have been mussed and folded over in haste, as she had left them the morning of the day she was killed. A cloud of dust floats up as she flops down, dejected and irritated by these pesky thoughts.

She never made her own bed.

Here, she thinks, she'll be fine, because he's never set foot in this room, in all the years she can recall of him living above her head, his feet pounding the thin wood, and, years before, the tap of Lucy's shoes on the floor, pacing in a more delicate way than her wonderfully charming husband.

Clutching her head, she pulls back, sweat beginning to form on her palms...

_She lies in bed, feeling sick and feverish, Toby outside running the shop, and Mr. Todd comes in, frowning, to sit by her bedside._

_"You're not dying," he says flatly. "You won't die."_

_"Excellent bedside manner, love," she laughs, closing her eyes again. It's much too hot in this little room._

_"Get better," he had whispered to her. "I need you."_

_He then stands back up, clears his throat, and leaves quickly. _

_All the fever in the world couldn't keep her from grinning from ear to ear. _

"Dammit," she curses.

She stands, reaching under the wooden frame of the bed to grab her satchel, a leather thing that was ages old, and falling apart.

Tearing open dresser drawers, Mrs. Lovett is quick to select only the dresses that are easier to move about it, not at all heavy or showy. She has no need for that right now. And then, tugging at the bottom drawer, she opens the small hatbox hidden there, and lifts up the wad of money.

Never one to trust the bank, she had always kept her savings in that little box. This she adds to her pile of things to bring with her.

But this is isn't what she's really searching for. Lifting out the pile of letters and papers also stored in the hatbox, she is panicked to find it's not there.

"The ring..."

She has no real idea why she wants it now, to see it, glinting a dull, unpolished silver thing in-between her thin fingers, a reminder of all that has passed, and hurt her. But the need for it is stronger than anything, and she hates herself for wanting it, a gift from a man who is dead, which in turn reminds her of his resurrection as the man who killed her.

"Ain't love grand, then?" She sits back on her knees, now thoroughly upset that after minutes of tearing the entire dresser apart, she's still unable to find it.

She can only think that someone took it, but searching her mind, she cannot recall anyone.

Resigned to leave it as an unsolved mystery, she rises again, now packed, and unfolds the bundle Mrs. Mooney gave her.

It comes with a lovely leather belt for carrying them, but thinking upon this, she decides it's not such a wise decision to go about with a weapon in plain sight at this moment. So slipping one into a sheath about her ankle, she puts the other two away in the satchel, and makes to leave.

This was her home, for so many years...She can't even consider returning now, or anytime soon. Not until she finds a way to make his eyes stop appearing around every corner, his figure materialize in the mirrors, and his voice echo through the empty house.

Silently, Mrs. Lovett bids a goodbye to this place.

Outside, the Beadle Bamford is waiting, pausing on one of his excursions about town to gaze upon the place where all his nightmares began, when he hears the chime of the shop's door, and he is suddenly a yard away from Mrs. Lovett herself.

The idea forms in his head almost immediately.

Boots making a distinct sound on the street, he is in front of her in a flash, smiling his flattering smile as per usual. She looks surprised, then sickened.

"Oh, well this is lovely," she drawls sarcastically, looking quite annoyed.

"Ah, haha, you are quite humorous, Mrs. Lovett. Now, I am in a rush now, but I did want to inform you of your, ah, target's location at this present time."

Stopping, she eyes him, interest piqued by his odd remark. "I'm listening, Beadle Bamford, but do make this quick..."

"Sweeney Todd is currently on a ship, bound for Venice. My sources have informed me so, from postal correspondence between Todd and a woman in Venice, Johanna Hope, who is an acquaintance of his. Now, not to order you to go there, or anything like that, but...Venice is large, Mrs. Lovett. Vast. It would be very easy to, you know..."

He pantomimes slashing his own throat, his gloved finger sliding over a silk cravat wrapped tightly about his neck.

She says nothing for a moment.

"Venice, eh?"

"Indeed, ma'am," he says sweetly, bowing low and stepping hastily back to his carriage. He doesn't much like to be near her now that he knows her nature.

"You shall certainly see me there, Mr. Bamford," she says, a sadistic smirk crossing her usually bright features, giving her a distinct look of a madwoman, or worse still, a witch. He hops into his carriage, not bothering to reply, hastening the driver to go as fast as is allowed, leaving Mrs. Lovett as a tiny speck on the corner of Fleet Street.

Mrs. Lovett loses interest rather fast in the vanishing form of the Beadle's carriage; honestly, while she truly detests the man, she admits he's been helpful, giving her this information.

Her head turns up to the door of the tonsorial parlor so famously known for being the best in all of London. Her heart pounds at the thought of it, the memory of climbing these steps, every day, sometimes four or five times, to see him, lounging in the barber's chair, or with his forehead pressed against the window glass. Or with the portrait of his wife and daughter in his hands as he remembers days long past.

Any mood he was in when she arrived, he didn't really ever pay much attention to her when she came up there to speak with him, or gaze at him.

Sometimes, it was enough to just look at him, watch him as his eyes traveled lovingly over the polished blade of silver, or to see his profile, made prominent by the grey London light filtering into the small room.

When she finds herself with her hand on the door, she takes little time to push in open and step inside.

It's almost disappointing to her, to find it empty; she had half-expected him to still be here. His leather coat is hung upon poor Albert's chair, a mechanism of evil now, the third conspirator in their devilish plan. Without knowing why, she is compelled to snatch it up, and sling it on, suddenly warmed immensely. She had always wanted to wear it, just once, because it had looked so warm. Grinning, she sits down in the chair.

"Nothin' you can do to stop me from takin' this now," she yells to no-one. "S' quite comfortable, this jacket. I'm keepin' it."

_The flowers she replaces every week were something she had thought went unnoticed, until the morning she awoke to find an entire bouquet of them, all different colors, sitting in her parlor. _

_His hand rests for the tiniest moment on her back, warm and gentle, as if she may break. _

_"You're a bloody wonder, Mrs. Lovett."_

Gritting her teeth, she cries, "Can't you leave me be, for just one minute?!"

Pushing herself up and out of the chair, she flies out the door, down the steps and heads at a good pace toward the docks. The exercise is a comfort, and she can forget, for now at least, the strength of her memory when she had sat down in that room.

Wasting no time, Mrs. Lovett hurries as fast as is possible.

She has a boat for Venice to catch by the end of the day, after all.

_AN: The plot thickens! _

_This was fun to write; the flashbacks are especially nice. _

_Mrs. Mooney's words are of course taken almost directly from the words of Hattori Hanzo in Kill Bill as he hands over his newly crafted sword._

_When Mrs. Lovett says "Ain't love grand?" I was listening to the Atreyu song of the same name, which is why it appears here. _

_I personally keep some of my important belongings in a hatbox, so that is written in from real life experience._

_To Venice, yay!_

**Next chapter: Part VI: Venice Lights Were Blinding Me**


	7. Part VI: Venice Lights Were Blinding

_AN: Chapter seven, lucky number seven, etc. etc._

_I'd like to take this time to thank all my loyal readers; your reviews are a delight to read, and I love reading everyone's reaction. You are what keeps me going, my absolute motivation. It is a wonderful feeling to have people read and enjoy my writing. So, merci boucoup, gracias, thank you, thank you!_

_So, our setting changes to Venice, Italy._

_Now, I must confess, I have never been to Venice. In fact, I'm regretting deciding on Venice, because as someone who knows French, it would have been nicer to set this part in Paris. Alas, the damage is done. _

_So, if there is an inaccuracy in my descriptions of the city, or anything, you can let me know. _

_By the way, "Casa del Lametta ", the restaurant in this chapter, is Italian and literally means "House of the Razorblade". Luckily for us, no characters will be speaking any Italian, so...They dunno what it means. _

_Hint: Mrs. Lovett speaks an extremely famous catch-phrase from yet another Johnny Depp movie in this chapter. _

_And there are also several cameos in the bar scene...can you guess who they are? And! The relation of a familiar face appears._

_Onward!_

**"Why can't we see...When we bleed we bleed the same? I can't get it right, get it right...  
Since I met you." **

**--- Map of the Problematique by Muse **

**"It's horrid to see you again, now that you're back from the dead. It's horrid to see you again. So bored of being...alive, alive, alive."**

**--- Lazarus by Placebo**

**Part VI: Venice Lights Were Blinding**

The streets of Venice are more perplexing than London's, by far, a maze of narrow streets, wide walkways, twisting alleys, sudden turns and unexpected dead-ends, and on her fourth circling of a small block of houses, Mrs. Lovett allows herself a loud stream of curses into the orange tinted sky.

Darkness will settle soon, she knows no Italian, and she's hopelessly lost.

Leaving the docks, the captain of the vessel she had managed to acquire passage on had yelled to her to be careful, and had asked if she needed directions. Foolishly, she had declined his offer.

"Dammit," she mutters, sitting down, dejected, on a bench overlooking the water canals this city is so famous for. At this moment, she's tempted to leap onto on of the passing gondolas and demand passage to...to...

Stupidly, in her rush to get here, to the city of lights, she had completely forgotten to ask anyone where Johanna lived in Venice, let alone the street it was on, or the area of town. Or where the girl is at this instant.

And suddenly, there's a shuffling of hurried footsteps behind her, and she's face to face with none other than Anthony Hope himself.

The boy has changed in these five years; he's less youthful, more hardened by the ways of the world, almost to the point of appearing hostile, and upon catching her eye, he simply looks away, and then, shock sets into his face, and he whirls about, pointing at her, mouth open.

"Mrs. L-Lovett...? Ma'am, is that...?"

"Me," she replies, "Yes. Hullo Anthony."

He shakes his head, eyes strangely frightened by this sight before his yes.

"No, it cannot be you," he protests, still shaking his head, blue eyes glinting dangerously, as if he's come face to face with a particularly threatening figure in a dark alleyway.

"You're dead. I'm seeing things, I--"

Stepping toward him, she touches his hand, and he shifts away quickly, a jerking, panicked movement, but she's seemed to confirm that she is indeed alive.

"Y'see? I'm alive, Anthony. D'you know where Johanna is?"

Straightening, his face darkens eerily, a protective look coming across him, and the boy glares at her, suspicious.

"Why would you want to see my wife?" The word is spit out like a threat, as if this will make her frightening. Despite his growing up, she can only see him as a boy, thin and with little fight in him. She's not at all afraid of this odd behavior, despite how perplexing it is.

Mrs. Lovett recalls, clearly, the same look on the face of Judge Turpin.

"I need," she begins, slowly, pondering how to word her motives. "To find her, cos, y'see, Mr. Todd won't be far away, I suspect. And Mr. Todd...Is what I came here for."

Her hand travels subconsciously to the belt buckled tightly around her thin waist, it's sheath holding her own friends, silver and gleaming, just like _his_, and yet, seemingly more graceful in her eyes, full of cruelty that is focused and aimed for just one man. Anthony, thick-headed as he has always been, doesn't take notice of this, instead, stepping toward her, eyebrows raised.

"I'm afraid, ma'am, that Mr. Todd does not reside here, in Venice. I truly do not know where his home is located, to be frank, now, if you'll excuse me..."

Her hand is caught to his sleeve, quicker than anything, and she holds the silver blade out, deftly gripping the handle, glaring at him.

"Ah, but you see, 'e's comin' to visit dear Johanna. I have information from reliable (however disgusting) sources, and I'm here to tell you that if you would be so kind as to lead me to 'im, I will find no use of this 'ere knife, savvy?"

Pressing the blade to his throat, she stares threateningly until, hating her so strongly with those blue, blue eyes, Anthony nods slowly, and sets of at a brisk pace, occasionally shooting looks at this new Mrs. Lovett, a different thing entirely from the oddly desperate woman he remembers so vividly.

He can recall that her eyes never left Mr. Todd, longing, it seemed, to be loved. He had always thought Mr. Todd to be a good man, but in this small aspect, Anthony had decided the man had been ignorant of the importance of love, and had thusly been oblivious to Mrs. Lovett's obvious affection for him.

The woman striding purposefully next to him now, having sheathed the knife, is the same in looks alone; her eyes, shadowed once in a way that was charmingly tired, are now darkened with a cynicism that she never held before, the brown orbs within flaring with an odd contempt. He wonders briefly her intentions toward meeting Mr. Todd, but is so much more concerned for Johanna's safety he ignores this thought.

He will protect her, no matter the cost, he has sworn to. The evils of this world must pass her by, in order for her to still smile at him with a light in her eyes, with a hope behind that face that makes his heart melt...

They are suddenly in front of the "Casa del Lametta", a restaurant that is fairly famous for its musical acts and Italian cuisine. Decorated about its roof are smiling gargoyles, with intricately sculpted wings, an odd mixture of demon and angel that is unsettling to Eleanor, even now.

Anthony shifts nervously at the door, knowing Johanna did not expect him to come and dine with her and their two guests, and puts a hand in front of her to stop her from moving forward.

Fixing her with a serious look, he hisses: "If you so much as lay eyes on my wife, on my Johanna...I will kill you, Mrs. Lovett, I swear it."

She snorts, giving him a look of disbelief. "You?" Smirking, she shakes her head.

"Alright, alright. I ain't gonna hurt yer pretty Johanna. Cross my heart."

Pushing him aside roughly, she steps inside and is instantly drowned by the surge of voices and clinking glasses.

Anthony remains outside, a storm brewing within his eyes, heart thumping in fury. He doesn't want such a woman to even lay eyes on his Johanna.

Such filth does not deserve to gaze upon her beauty.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

At the bar, Mrs. Lovett orders herself a shot of brandy, rewarding herself for getting this far already. With any luck, she'll have Sweeney Todd put away in a shelf in the back of her mind by the end of the evening, bloodied and unable to ever haunt her again.

The glass arrives, a clinking ring on the wooden counter-top, and she sips, not wanting to waste such expensive alcohol in one gulp.

A dark-haired woman of Nellie's own age, with dark eyes and smirking lips is crooning a song while playing the piano, eccentric on sight, hunched and smoking from a long cigarette. She is accompanied by two men, one with thick glasses and shifty eyes, looking nervously about the room spread before him, and a confident, muscular man who is well-dressed and full of swagger. They play a violin, and a trumpet, respectively.

Clearing her throat at the end of the song, she wobbles drunkenly in her seat, and waves to the crowds of people eating and drinking. In front of the small stage is a group of young people, dancing to the music.

"Thanks," she coughs. "Thanks, er, graci, or whatever. Marla Singer, and her lovely troupe of instrumentalists thanks you. This, this is, uh..."

Stopping, dark eyes going wide, she points one long finger directly at Mrs. Lovett.

"You," she says, and Nellie nearly jumps out of her skin, pointing to herself slowly, heart thumping.

"Me?" This cannot be good.

She's certain she's been had, certain that he's going to appear out of nowhere...

"You, lady, are clearly a woman in love," the pianist professes, jilting in her speech. "I dedicate--"

Coughing from the smoke, she takes another drink of bourbon from the piano's top, and holds up both hands for silence from the crowd.

"-- I dedicate this next song to that lady over there. To love, gentleman, and lady. And now...

_Feeling Good."_

The piano starts in, a high, melancholy note, and the woman named Marla Singer begins:

_"Birds flying high...you know how I feel  
Sun in the sky...you know how I feel  
Reeds drifting on by...you know how I feel  
It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me...  
And I'm feeling good..."_

Flushed from the embarrassment of the room's eyes turning to stare at her, she swirls about in her seat at the bar, and sips the brandy quickly, gazing up to the balcony above, furnished with tables and chairs for viewers gazing from above. Following the figures above, she doesn't see him until he crosses to the balcony section directly above the stage.

_"Fish in the sea, you know how I feel  
River running free, you know how I feel  
Blossom in the trees, you know how I feel  
It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me...  
And I'm feeling good... _

Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don't you know  
Butterflies all having fun, you know what I mean  
Sleep in peace, when this day is done  
And this old world  
Is a new world, and a bold world  
For me..." 

Her heart seems to stop in her chest, the brandy sliding down her throat burns more than usual, her eyes widen and she cannot move, afraid to look away, for fear he's only an apparition, a ghost playing tricks with her mind.

"Sweeney Todd," she whispers, reverence filling her despite all the hatred, gazing at his pale form above her, like a god descending from the heavens above, for her and only her.

He's still the same as always, his gaze elsewhere than her, staring down at the band below with detached interest, his eyes seeming to move about the crowds restlessly, dark and brooding (as is only fitting, only typical) his face seeming to be twisted painfully as he remembers something.

_"Stars when you shine, you know how I feel  
Scent of the pine, you know how I feel  
Yeah, freedom is mine, and you know how I feel  
It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life...  
For me... _

Oooohhh, feeling good..." 

The music is over, and she's jolted out of her reverie, a brief moment in which, upon laying eyes on him, she had been fooling herself into thinking everything was the same as it always was. For a brief moment, her heart had surged with an emotion that she recalls only dimly, a feeling that had made her dizzy, as her eyes stared at him, intent on gazing up at his face, as if he will disappear if she turns away.

Heart thumping, she can't believe she's gotten this far. But before her mind can formulate any plan, her legs move of their own accord, taking her to the front of the stage, still clutching her brandy in one shaking hand.

"Sweeney Todd!" It's a strained yell, almost desperate, and Mrs. Lovett hardly recognizes it as her own voice, until he seems to freeze in his spot on the balcony, eyes trailing downward, a look of horror forming on his features as he locks his gaze upon her.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's almost sure his heart has stopped in his chest (if he still has a heart), and his hands grip the balcony railing so tightly his knuckles are white, trembling all over.

She's standing down there, Mrs. Lovett is standing right below him, pale and angry and oh so beautiful...Clutching a drink, she's glaring up at him, looking equally shaken by his appearance at this place.

Stumbling back, he clutches his head, eyes showing him red, red, red, and _her_ face, mournful and accusing, full of this hatred he's never seen in her before, hitting him like a knife to the chest. Gasping, suddenly struggling to breath, he shakes his head.

"No, no, no," he whispers. "No, no, she's dead. She's dead, and this is just an illusion..."

But even as he says it, he watches the band stop, the diners in the restaurant turn their eyes to him, on the landing, watching with intense interest. No, they've heard her yelling to him, heard her call his name, and it's surely a sign that this is Mrs. Lovett, miraculously revived. Sweeney Todd rips his gaze away from her, for she's all he can look at, if he dares to look back down.

Johanna is coming down the landing, blue eyes shimmering with worry, saying something to him, but he can't hear a thing, not even what his daughter's voice, because his head is filled with a cacophony of drums, blood pounding in his temples. Perhaps he will die, right here, just from the sight of her, back again from the dead, almost.

And yet, as Johanna guides him back to their table, sitting him down, feeling his forehead, he is sure she's not back from the dead...She never died, down in the bakehouse, where he left her to bleed. No, something told her, perhaps, to hang onto what little life she had left, and he knows her so well, he's sure she clung to it with all her might, stubbornly refusing to simply close her eyes and become another victim of his blades.

Breathing easier now, he watches as Toby races to the railing, screaming down to her, and he gets to his feet, grabbing Toby by the scruff of the neck, and taking Johanna's hand. Leaning down to his daughter's ear, he murmurs:

"We need to leave."

She nods, and directs them toward a back door, at the end of the upper dining level, Toby struggling to get free, arms reaching for his mother, eyes filling with tears of happiness (or are they tears of sadness? He cannot tell). Sweeney holds on tightly, the end of Toby's shirt caught in a death grip, Johanna's hand small and delicate in his other hand. He can hear her screaming up at him now, and against his will, he turns his face to watch as she climbs up on a table, completely livid, eyes flashing with a murderous look.

"Look at me!" she screams. "Look, Sweeney Todd! Look at me!"

But he turns away, mind racing, still feeling disoriented. It as if her face has turned the world on its head, and he's finding it very difficult to adjust.

Scrambling down a set of rickety wooden stairs, Johanna's hair swishing in front of him, Toby's cries behind him, all Sweeney Todd can think, as his legs carry him downward is:

_She's alive, she's alive, she's alive._

The rhythm of his footsteps beat in time with his thoughts.

_Eleanor Lovett is alive._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While Mr. Todd, Johanna and Toby are making their escape, Anthony is at the docks, finishing his work for the day.

Having taken extra hours to accommodate Johanna's plan for dinner with Mr. Todd and Toby, his fingers ache from straining to support the wooden crates he lifts onto ships, off of ships, onto carts, off of carts, carrying fruit, food, supplies, anything at all.

He's strong, despite his scrawny appearance, muscular now that he's worked here at this job for going on five years now. He's proud of his strength, a comfort to him, for he knows that in order to shield his wife, he must be stronger than any demon who dares to lay a hand upon her.

He is not as worried as he would have been, because Mr. Todd was with her. If anything, Anthony has seen first-hand that that man is perfectly capable of both destroying a man, or protecting someone.

He remembers, as he lifts a large box labeled "textiles", when he spotted Mr. Todd's form, clinging to what looked like a pitiful raft, tossed about in the ocean. Once they had dragged him aboard, the man, soaked to the bone, had let fly a leveling blow to one the helmsman, who had been knocked flat. It had taken a good deal of coaxing (and had cost them three men, unconscious) to convince the man that they were nothing but a cargo ship, unaffiliated with the British military. Slumping down, satisfied, he had passed out cold. Exhausted, perhaps, from fighting against everyone for so long.

"Mr. Hope!" Melchior, one of the messenger boys, is running toward him, huffing. "Mr. Hope, sir, there's someone to see you."

Panting, the boy sits on the crate, catching his breath. Anthony frowns. He can't think of anyone in Venice who'd like to speak with him. Nonetheless, he nods to Melchior, who's still recovering from his sprint, and strides toward the warehouse, where they store all the boxes and cargo that is to be shipped for the next three weeks. Inside, perched atop a container of bananas is the Beadle Bamford.

Anthony thinks to bolt, feet already wheeling him 'round and carrying him into the start of his own exerting dash as far away from this place as possible when the Beadle calls out to him.

"They're here for your wife," he yells to Anthony, and he stops dead, stomach filled with a sinking feeling, like the anchor of a weight.

"Wh-what?"

The Beadle gazes nonchalantly at his gloves, leather, custom made, and looks up at Anthony Hope with a look of worry.

"The man. Mr. Sweeney Todd, and the woman, Mrs. Eleanor Lovett. He wants Johanna, you see, Mr. Todd does, for himself," the Beadle tells him, as if giving a lecture to a small child.

"You see, boy, that girl of yours, Johanna, she's this Mr. Todd's daughter. Now, not exactly Mr. Todd's daughter, per se, but she's Benjamin Barker's child, and Barker became Todd, so it's all the same, really. Anyhow, Mr. Todd's come here to take her back, you see? And Mrs. Lovett, she'll do anything for Mr. Todd, so she's helping him, see?"

Under normal circumstances, Anthony would have denied such a claim. Denied any involvement on Mr. Todd's part in such a wicked plan.

But Anthony had sailed the world, and while he is still young, he has learned of the evils that men do, since sailing into London five years ago. And he won't let it happen to Johanna. Not again, not ever. They cannot take her away; she needs him to protect her.

"So, I was only thinking of telling you," the Beadle says, "So you'd be able to stop 'em."

Anthony turns around, a look of determination on his usually peaceful features. A smile forms on his lips, a hint of madness in his eyes.

"And what," he murmurs, "Do you propose I do about this?"

Hands on the top of his cane, the Beadle Bamford grins, so pleased to see his plans come together so easily. Like a chess game.

"I want you to kill 'em. Both of 'em. They'll never bother you or Johanna again, if they're dead."

It takes only a second for him to decide.

"Consider it done," he replies.

And with this, Anthony Hope has been all but buried underneath the poison that is young love.

_AN: Boo, bad last line._

_The song sung by Marla Singer is "Feeling Good" by Muse. I'm obsessed with it._

_Marla Singer is the leading female character in the book and movie "Fight Club", and was played by Helena Bonham-Carter in the movie version. She's also (at least, in this story) Dr. Alan Singer's wife, who ran off. Drama insues!_

_Her two male bandmates are the two Tyler Durdens, also from "Fight Club". One, of course, is Brad Pitt's Tyler, and the other is Edward Norton's Tyler. _

_Mrs. Lovett's famous uses a Jack Sparrow catchphrase in this chapter: "Savvy?"_

_Anthony's gone loony. If you couldn't tell already, I sort of hate him. _

_Melchior, the messenger boy, is the main character from a recently released musical called Spring Awakening, which my brother is obsessed with, and so, I added him in. _

_Erm, I think this is shorter than usual. I dunno. Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed reading, reviews are appreciated._

**Next chapter: Part VII: Under the Gun**


	8. Part VII: Under the Gun

AN: Ahhh, I'm very very very sorry I haven't been updating.

There was an onslaught of schoolwork, and team practices, and I was very tired. But, it's a three day weekend, and I feel awful about never updating, so I'm updating now.

Enjoy!

**"She's got her halo and wings hidden under his eyes, but she's an angel for sure, she just can't stop telling lies."**

**--- Under the Gun by The Killers**

**"Well, for a lonely soul, you're having such a nice time..."**

**--- Nothing in My Way by Keane**

**Part VII: Under the Gun**

Head in his hands, Sweeney Todd is breathing fast, feeling sick, and is utterly lost.

Sitting on either side of him is Johanna and Toby, staring at the wooden floorboards of the guest bedroom, occasionally stealing glances at the man sitting between them, worried and frightened, and then, they sneak looks at one another, trying their best to communicate without saying a word.

The slightest thing could disrupt his train of thought, a delicate process, when dealing with such a delicate matter as this.

And it's especially painful; every time he even so much thinks about anything, she's there, in his mind, brown eyes full of hate and hurt, and a blind adoration that he suspects is a remnant from the old days. He hears her voice, pleading:

_"Look at me, Sweeney Todd."_

But looking for too long is akin to staring at the sun: he's blinded temporarily, dazed, his head pounding insistently.

Something about the way she looked at him. She had stared at him with a look he's seen in the mirror so many times, gazing at his own reflection, struggling to remember what kind of a man he was before he was Sweeney Todd.

She's going to kill him, and she'll never stop until she does.

Shaky hands run through his dark hair, and he sighs, head tilted upward to gaze at the plaster ceiling. He doesn't want to die, despite it all. He doesn't want to lie there, bloodied and bruised, gasping for air, staring up into cold eyes, spiteful and pleased.

No, if there's one thing he values, it's his freedom.

He won't let her catch him, he can't let her catch him...Standing, he begins to pace the room, a feeling of nostalgia rising as he allows his feet to carry him about the room, independent of his mind. Toby and Johanna watch as he walks, turns, and walks again, finally whirling about and speaking to his daughter.

"Johanna," he begins slowly. "I apologize but...We must leave now. Will you help us?"

She smiles and nods, and despite all that is happening, his heart swells with pride for his lovely, level-headed daughter.

"Of course, Mr. Todd," she says. Then, her face falls. "But, my parents..."

"I will tell you everything I know," he promises. "But not this time, Johanna. Someday, I promise you."

Blue eyes shining with gratitude (if only she knew), she stands, and stops at the doorway.

"I'll go arrange it, so you two pack your bags."

He follows her, grasping her small, delicate hands in his own, and whispers sincerely:

"Thank you."

She says nothing, but her look tells him she understands.

Closing the door as she exits, he waits until he cannot hear her footsteps, and then he locks the door, facing Toby.

He's looking extremely confused, as deep in his thoughts as Sweeney himself, white hair hanging in his eyes. In this moment, he looks much more like a young man than a boy, his youthful face clouded with doubt. Looking up at his guardian, eyes shining, his lower lip quivers.

"You killed 'er, didn't you?"

_No sense lying now. _"Yes," Sweeney Todd replies.

Toby sighs. "I figured that, a while back," he says. "But it's different, hearin' it come from you."

"She lied to me," he protests slowly, and even to him, the excuse sounds pitiful. He adds:

"About my wife. Lucy, she...The beggar woman. I killed her. You remember, don't you?"

"'Course I do. She was always botherin' mum, and--"

Toby stops, and swears loudly, mouth open.

"No. She wasn't...She...That was yer wife?"

Sweeney nods.

"So," he murmurs, "Mum lied an' told you she was dead."

"Yes."

There's a silence in the room, as Toby processes this new information, fingering his chin like a fictional detective, brow furrowed. Sweeney simply stands, back against the door.

Finally, he says:

"But, Mr. Todd, I'm sure she did it cos she knew meetin' yer wife as a madwoman woulda hurt you...Right?"

"I don't know," he snaps. "I've been thinking over that night, replaying it in my head all these five years. And I have no idea if what I did was the right thing. But it's been done..."

It's certainly too late to apologize for what he's done, and he doubts he's truly sorry anyways. He doesn't really feel guilt anymore.

"...And if she's alive...Well, let her catch me, if she can. I've killed quite a few people, Tobias, and I've certainly ruined quite a few lives. It's time to start cleaning up the mess I've made."

_No more lies._

Toby bites his lip, fear practically radiating from his body. "Yer gonna kill 'er, then? Really kill 'er?"

The thought of her, another one of his victims, spattered with red, eyes wide in shock seems almost a disappointingly dull ending to her life. She deserves better than that, if he is going to kill her.

"I..."

He stops, and he looks down at the floor.

"I honestly don't know."

"She loved you, you know," Toby says, and it's almost an accusation. "But, she...she wants to kill you, Mr. Todd, and...and..."

The boy sobs, pressing his forehead to the window pane, tears streaming down his face.

"I don't know what to do either," he admits. "Mr. Todd...she's like a mother to me, Mr. Todd. But I don't...I don't want you to die...I..."

Sweeney stays silent, shifting awkwardly. He isn't sure of what to do, to comfort the boy, so he opts instead to stay still.

"I wanted us to be family, Mr. Todd. I wanted us to be happy, all three of us..."

Sweeney Todd lays a hand on Toby's shoulder, gazing with him out the window to the Venice streets below them, set in his purpose.

"I'm afraid, lad," he answers, "That that's a grave impossibility."

Toby says nothing, and they continue to look out from behind the glass in subdued silence, awaiting Johanna's return.

* * *

Nellie heaves a great sigh, shifting her legs as she waits, seated at an outdoor cafe near St. Mark's Square. After taking a good ten minutes explaining to the Italian waiter what exactly she wanted to order, she had found herself drifting back to what happened the night before.

He had looked exactly the same, but...At the same time, he had had a look of tired contentedness on his face, as he had gazed down on the musicians below.

Of course, she had to go and yell at him.

The look he had on his face when he saw her, realization dawning on him, was something to be pleased about, she supposes. That calm before a storm hits, and then...

A hurricane.

Smiling to herself at this though of his discomfort, she sips from her water glass, and gazes about the bustling street.

And then, Anthony Hope is standing at her table, eyes unclouded by that obsessive love, grinning sweetly. Bowing slightly, he gives her an apologetic look.

"Mrs. Lovett, ma'am," he says, his voice wispy and innocent, "I must apologize for my behavior yesterday. You see, Johanna was attacked a few days ago by a beggar; I have been somewhat on edge about her well-being ever since. It had been a long day of work, and I was so shocked to see you...I mean, you're supposedly dead. Could you find it in your heart to forgive me, and allow me the pleasure of joining you?"

His hand grasps the back of the chair opposite Mrs. Lovett, who, after eying him warily, decides it's safe enough to allow him to talk with her.

Placing her glass on the table, she folds her hands in a business-like fashion, and looks him squarely in the eye.

"I'm assuming you 'ave somethin' to tell me, Mr. Hope," she says coolly.

He nods. "Yes, ma'am. I always knew you to be the one who convinced Mr. Todd to agree to my keeping Johnna at his shop, and I'm eternally grateful to you for that, so I thought perhaps you'd like to know..."

At this, he stops, fidgeting with the collar of his suit, a fanciful tailored affair that doesn't suit him, especially since he so adamantly insists upon the profession of being a sailor.

"Mr. Todd has fled Venice, Mrs. Lovett. He fears you're here to kill him, so he has taken Johanna and Tobias, and he has fled for the inland wine vineyards. But...I know where he's headed, ma'am, and to repay you...I'll take you to him, Mrs. Lovett."

Typical, she thinks, simply typical. It's never easy for her, is it?

Sighing, she holds her head in her hands. Anthony sits ramrod straight, an obvious trait of being raised in a high class family, and stares politely at the table, determined.

"Very well," she assents. "Take me there."

He nods, standing and starting off down the street at a brisk pace. Leaping up from the table with a start, Mrs. Lovett raises her arm, waving for him to come back.

"Wait!" she calls, "I 'aven't gotten the coffee I ordered! Wait-- Oh, fine then."

She jogs after him, hair flying, and they set off toward the harbor.

* * *

Johanna sits at the table in their parlor (hers and Anthony's) and runs a hand over the papers that will carry Mr. Todd and Toby home swiftly. She wants to cry, but knows it's not proper, and she doesn't even know why she wants to anyway. She thinks it has something to do with last night...

Mr. Todd had stood there on the balcony, eyes wide with shock (or was it joy? relief? fear?) as a woman with reddish hair stood up on a restaurant table and yelled his name, close to tears herself. Something about the way Sweeney Todd had ran, a look of torn affection on his face as he glanced back at her, and how she had seemed so desperate, gazing up at him longingly, as if her heart was breaking...

It made Johanna want to cry, to see a love so battered and worn. It wasn't fair to Mr. Todd, or to that woman, who she had discovered was Mrs. Lovett quite quickly, from the way Toby had started screaming down to her.

It had taken a lot to maintain an image of calm, and when they had gotten home, all three of them had drifted to separate areas of the house, to mourn and brood in peace. Johanna had paced her bedroom, wondering where Anthony was, why Mrs. Lovett was on Venice (and more importantly, how she survived), and what they should do now.

It was obvious Mr. Todd thought it best to leave, and far be it from her to question his decisions; he knew this Mrs. Lovett far better than she did, and she trusted him far more than herself to make a choice on how to deal with her reappearance, but something about his strange looks, as if he himself had just had his heart torn out, made her feel that maybe, just maybe, they should stay and reunite with the former baker-woman.

As if on cue, Mr. Todd's heavy boots echo down the hallway, and he sinks into an armchair, head in his hands. She clears her throat slightly, and says:

"I have your tickets."

He nods his acknowledgment.

"Mr. Todd," she begins, then stops. "I...You don't have to leave until quarter past three. That's as quick as they come, I'm sorry I couldn't do better--"

He shoots her an intense look of gratitude, and she's shocked into silence by such a show of emotion.

"Thank you," he tells her. "That's fine."

"Why are you always so kind to me?" She whispers.

He starts to speak, and then stops, biting his lip. Shaking his head, he replies:

"I couldn't say. You are kind to me, Johanna Hope, so...It's only natural for one to be kind in return. You are the wife of the man who saved my life. That is enough."

"Do you truly know something of my parents?"

Sweeney Todd sighs, then slowly, a jack-o-lantern smile spreads on his face, and he tilts his head.

"You should ask _her._ She hangs onto the past so tightly, she could live in it. She'll know about your parents."

"You don't mean," Johanna says, frowning, "You couldn't mean ask Mrs. Lovett about my parents?"

"She doesn't bite," he murmurs. "Tell her...Tell her you deserve to know the truth from her. Tell her that, if you find her."

Toby appears, dressed and ready, bags packed. His hat is tipped slightly, and instinctively, Johanna reaches out an arm and straightens it so it completely conceals his white hair. He flushes under her ministrations, shoulders rising in discomfort and enjoyment. Mr. Todd rises from his chair, and bows to her.

"We shall leave now," he says. "We wouldn't want her chasing us here, but if she does show up here...Remember what I told you, Johanna. Goodbye."

Johanna bows back, and Toby, shuffling his feet, mutters a goodbye. She kisses his cheek lightly, and he smiles.

"I'll write," he promises. "We'll visit again, and we'll stay much longer. I swear!"

Nodding, she sees them to the door, and watches as they disappear into the crowds. Turning the lock, she prays for their safety, and hopes that they will meet Mrs. Lovett again.

No one should be without the one they love, after all.

* * *

Eleanor heaves a great gulp of air, pausing briefly at the crest of the hill to catch her breath, marveling at Anthony's effortless ability to traverse the pathways of Italian vineyards. He walks twenty yards ahead at a leisurely pace, blonde hair long, catching lightly in the breeze.

Groaning, she straightens up again, and continues behind him, the angry sun beating down on her pale face, a sheen of sweat on her shoulders. She long ago discarded her coat, hanging it on a grape vine, chuckling as she did so, because it's _his_ only leather coat, and how angry would he be, to come to London (if he survives long enough to return there again), and find it's not there?

She can imagine it:

_"Where's my coat?"_

_"Oh, I left it in a vineyard while we were in Italy, Mr. T, ha ha. S'probably been pinched by someone by now, you'll never find it again. Hahahaha."_

Finding herself too short of breath to even allow the slightest of laughs, she instead takes in more air, and continues onwards behind Anthony, who's stopped at a clearing in the center of the fields, turning about to wait for her.

A large well sits in the middle of the cleared area, it's lid slid open slightly. Benches surround it, and she deduces it's where the workers take their lunch, nearby their water source.

Circling about, she whistles. The view is certainly spectacular, at least there's that.

The clear blue sky stretches on for miles and miles, and in the misty distance, she can see Venice, and the villages they passed through in the carriage. The green twisting vines go on forever in every direction, and turning back to face Anthony, she frowns.

"I don't see any houses 'round 'ere. You certain this is where they're going?"

He nods, silent, and then gestures to the well. "I'm going to have a drink of water before we carry on. Do you want one?"

She's almost suspicious, but the promise of cold, clear water is too strong, and her desire to see Sweeney Todd, splayed on the floor, blood pouring from open wounds is too tempting for her to resist. She concedes, and steps forward, watching eagerly as Anthony pulls the wooden lid off the well, and reaches inside.

Coming up to the edge, she leans over, peering into the dark depths, marveling at the coolness of the stone, as if it sits in the shade all day.

She doesn't notice Anthony Hope pull out a wooden club from it's resting place on a loose ledge in the well's interior rim. And she doesn't notice when he sidles up behind her, eyes flashing furious.

She feels only the intense pain of a heavy thing hitting her head, and two delicate hands (not raised or bred for work) rest on her back, pushing her forward, and down, down, down.

Her stomach flips as she feels a sick sensation of falling a great ways, and then there's the shocking cold splash of water, a heaviness as her clothes soak in the wet, and then, the slow eclipse of the beam of light as Anthony Hope slides the well's lid back into place.

* * *

AN: Oh god, Mrs. Lovett, why?

Nope, don't worry.

I feel like I'm paying tribute to the Ring series of movies by putting her in a well...I actually was thinking about making it one of those cylindrical containers people crush wine grapes in, but they're too shallow. Too easy to get out of, haha.

Once again, I'm so sorry for updating. I swear more chapters will come sooner than this!

This chapter was fueled by Diet Coke and pita chips.

Reviews appreciated!

**Next chapter: Part VIII: The Beadle and I**


	9. Part VIII: Anthony and I

AN: WHOA! This fic has passed the 100 review mark! Omigosh, I'm so, so, so grateful to all of you who review! Thank you for your feedback and support! I love reading your reviews!

As a gift to you, I present this, a new chapter, so soon after updating! I hope this calms your fears, after I left you with that cliffhanger.

And now, we get to the good, violent, gritty stuff (i.e. stuff I enjoy writing a whole lot)! Yay! Swearing is in this chapter, so...yeah.

I changed the chapter title, to fit the story, however the title is a parody of the "chapter" in Kill Bill vol. 2, "Elle and I", in which Elle Driver and Budd confront one another, and The Bride is buried alive, and struggles to escape. Sound a bit familiar? This is one of the few chapters that follows the movie almost exactly, at least in how each scene is set up. For those of us who are Kill Bill fan's, you'll recognize a whole bunch of the lines spoken here!**

* * *

"No one's gonna take me alive...The time has come to make things right...You and I must fight for our rights...You and I must fight to survive." **

--- Knights of Cydonia by Muse

"Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole, just like a faucet that leaks (and there is comfort in the sound). But while you may be half-empty, or half-full...It slowly rises, your love is gonna drown..."

--- Marching Bands of Manhattan by Death Cab for Cutie 

Part VIII: Anthony and I

It is cold, and it is wet, and Eleanor is finding it extremely difficult to swim, what with the dull throb of her head, and the heaviness of her soaked clothes. Floating precariously, just above the surface, she gulps in air, and then shivers.

The well water is cold enough to make her shake, which is certainly not helping her stay afloat.

She's really never been in water before, at least, not water that was this deep. Just another reason why it would have been excellent to go to the sea; she would have learned how to swim, at least. 

Ah, that's awfully ironic. 

Splashing about, she tries to calm herself, while above, she can faintly hear the pounding of a hammer, nailing in place the lid of the well. With each smack of the hammer upon the nail, her heart thumps louder, panicking. 

Oh god, oh god, I'm going to die, aren't I? 

Her feet just barely hit the bottom, forcing her to stand on tip-toe, in order to stay above water, but now, she sinks down to the bottom, touching the earth there. It's cold as anything, packed tightly, and she's going to die here, drowned and exhausted, because she can't possibly wait until tomorrow to have the workers discover her here, can she?

She doubts she can last that long. 

So, this is the end for Nellie Lovett. 

She can picture it now: the Italian men, tanned from the sun, hands rough from farm work, striding down to their water source, ready for a cool drink of water, when they pry it open to find her, pale and soaking wet, dead at the bottom of their precious well. And then, she can imagine them, speaking rapidly in Italian, calling over all the workers, surrounding the circular opening, looking down in wonderment at this corpse, asking each other how it got down there.

She could tell them, she really would tell them, and if she lasted long enough, she'd be sure to yell from the tops of mountains that it was that son of a bitch, that silly little nit of a man, Anthony Hope, that fool, that bastard, he's the one who put her down here, where it's cold and she's all alone...

So I suppose it's true...We really do live together, an' die alone. 

At this thought, she begins to cry, big heaving sobs as she bobs up and down, up and down...All of this is so unfair, and she feels so helpless, and what's worse, the thought of death has made her long to see him, just once, one more time.

"Sweeney Todd," she chokes, tears streaming down her face.

If she could only have made him smile more. If she had tried hard enough...She could have shown him how perfect they were together. He would have loved her...If only...

And then maybe, she wouldn't be here. She'd be at the ocean, lounging beside him in the hot sun, the waves crashing in a monotonous rhythm, lulling her to sleep as he closed his eyes, and whispered to her that he was happy, here and now, with her.

The thought only makes her hate him more now, for taking this chance away from them both.

Still crying, she can tell she's already getting tired of moving her arms about in a flailing motion to keep herself afloat. 

I've got to stay above water... 

The idea is one of those lovely Practical and Charming Notions of hers, and the thought of it cheers her up a little.

Reaching behind her, she unlaces the strings on the top layer of her dress, wriggling out of it so that she's left in the plainer, lighter lower layer, a slip of a thing that she'd have normally (under any circumstance) never allowed anyone to see, especially now that it's wet, and clinging to her skin. But she's going to die, and nobody's here, and as long as she's trying to stay alive, what does it matter?

Now she's much colder.

She thinks idly of his razors, cold and steely, these beautiful things that summed up him, Sweeney Todd, in his entirety. Cold and deadly, and absolutely lovely, but certainly a dangerous thing to toy with. 

Oh. 

At this memory of him, twirling his blades in his hand reverently, mesmerized by the secrets it held, she suddenly remembers her own weapons, concealed in the belt about her waist, and she dives into the water, fumbling blindly through the folds of her discarded dress to find the leather of the belt.

When he hands clasp around it's buckle, she gives a cry of victory that she quickly regrets, as water fills her throat and she's forced to the surface, coughing and spluttering.

The water rocks about from her movement, swaying her body back and forth, and the small waves lap against the stone of the well's circumference, making slapping noises.

Her boots are full of water, and she feels like a little girl again, splashing about in puddles so much she was walking in small container of water, not galoshes. And how her mother had been so angry at her for doing that.

Fingers close tightly around the knife with it's hooked end, and the cleaver. She thought it funny, when Mrs. Mooney called it a culinary knife, because the only she's ever cut up with it was various animals, and human flesh. Hardly the kind of cuisine someone would call gourmet, but...

She runs hands along either side of the well, fingers searching for loose soil between the stones, and when she's found two small spaces in between the bricks that are suitable, she wriggles the cleaver's edge into the plaster, and the hook of the knife into the other space.

Pulling upwards, she manages to place her feet on the sides of the well before sliding down to the bottom again.

Again, she tries another approach, scrabbling up the well's side, feet moving frantically as the knife reaches up, finding its new place, hooking into the ledge, but her arms shake at the last moment and she quivers, sliding all the way back down.

Falling into the water with a splash, she yells loudly, frustrated and defeated. Allowing herself to float in the water, panting hard from the exertion, she closes her eyes for the briefest of moments.

* * *

"What are you doing, Mrs. Lovett?"

He's standing above her in his tonsorial parlor, arms folded, skeptical. One eyebrow raised, his dark eyes watch with interest as she smiles weakly, waving up to him before resuming her efforts to scale the small drop between their cellar, and the barbershop. He frowns.

"You're not going to make it," he comments dryly.

"I am," she snaps back.

He's only just cut the hole into his floorboards, and the two of them worked together to saw an opening between their two floors. The walls have been laid with brick, a day's work for him, as she patiently stirred the cement mixture. He's by no means a highly skilled worker, but he's done a fairly good job, if she can say so (which she has, on numerous occasions, to which he only replies with a grunt).

Hands grip the sides of the opening, and she looks up to him, grinning as she readies herself.

"We wouldn't want anyone to get stuck going down, would we? And we can't 'ave anyone climbin' up, if they live...I'm only sayin', it's best we make sure a body can fit through either way. And someone's got to be able to fit in 'ere, so we can attach the door, right?"

He says nothing, only nodding slowly, not exactly seeing her logic in this situation, but he allows her the chance to do it all the same. To be honest, she can't quite say why she does it herself, but she wants to show him she's strong, somehow. And maybe, if she falls, he'll catch her...

Thin arms flex with what little muscle they have as she takes a running start and hops into the opening, ducking her head down, and flattening her hands against either side, stopping her descent downward. And then, setting one foot forward slowly as he watches on, she manages to make her way up the sloped opening, hands finally clasping the edge in relief, hauling the rest of her body up with it, and when she huffs, struggling to get all the way out, he sighs, and reaches out, grabbing her hands and pulling her to her feet as easily as lifting a feather.

Shaking his head, he mutters to her:

"Don't do it again. You could die, you know."

It's as if he's proclaimed his undying love, the way she goes off, grinning radiantly, still short of breath. He shakes his head, and smiles in amusement.

* * *

Looking up, she can see slivers of moonlight coming in through the spaces inbetween the boards of the lid, shining into the well, illuminating the water, making it shimmer like silver.

Silver...

Righting herself, she dives back down, ripping a long strip of fabric off the dress, gripping tightly the handle of the hooked knife, tying the cloth around it so it won't come loose. Then, looking upward, she smirks.

"Alright, Mr. Todd," she whispers, "Here I come."

The hook catches on the ledge, and she slams the cleaver into the well's side to steady herself, feet bracing her, and she repeats, steadily climbing the well's length.

It feels like an eternity since she started, and she slips several times, almost falling to the bottom, but then, she thinks of him, skeptical, scoffing at her.

You'll never make it, Mrs. Lovett. 

At then, she's at the top, pounding a fist on the wood, jamming the cleaver's blade through the crack in the wood and twisting it.

There's splinters everywhere, and she shoves the shattered board out and...

Gasping for air, dripping water, she grasps the lid, pulling herself up and out, and onto the dry grass, collapsing in a heap, exhausted.

Staring up at the full moon, and the sky, littered with stars, she begins to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.

* * *

The small restaurant on the outskirts of the Italian village had been down on its luck as of late; the owner, an ailing man whose dream had always been to have a famous restaurant in Venice, was sitting on the front patio, smoking a cigarette with his son sweeping the porch nearby, when they spot the woman on the crest of the hill in the dirt road.

She's limping slightly in cracked and worn leather shoes, dripping water from her hair, droplets running down her pale skin. An array of scars makes up her shoulders and neck, and when she shifts slightly, the father and son see she's got a horrible scar on her back.

The deep maroon slip, which should be worn with a dress, is clinging to her thin frame, dust stuck to its edges.

Approaching them, she smiles sweetly.

"Per favore, ci porte dell'acqua."

They rush to get her the water, handing her a tall glass, and she gulps it down quickly.

"Graci," she says, and then, setting down the glass on their table, walks away. The two watch as she fades out of sight, at a loss for words to describe what just occurred.

"So that's it, then," Marla Singer yells at her husband, tossing her cigarette onto the floor, her throat hoarse.

"I..."

"You just," she sputters, throwing her hands in air, exasperated, "Just...decide, without my consent, to fraternize with this...this...slimy, disgusting midget, and..."

"I'm doing this for us," Alan Singer yells back, looking so pained and weary it's a wonder he doesn't collapse right there. "And in case you had forgotten, Marla, darling, you left us. The instant you set foot out that door, you forfeited your right to have any say in my decisions for this family, so don't you dare tell me that I--"

Marla sighs. "Wonderful Alan, that's so typical of you, martyring yourself...I'm not perfect, and I admit that, but I know my sense of right and wrong, and this is wrong, Alan. I know you think I'm awful and a bitch, and I've betrayed you, but please...don't go meet him. Please."

She walks up to him, gripping the lapels of his coat, dark eyes swimming with tears. Alan Singer looks away, and whispers:

"I'm sorry Marla. But I owe him. And you never go back on your word, not when you've made a deal with Beadle Bamford. I'd be killed, and then what would happen to Evangeline?"

"She's old enough to take care of herself. Please, Alan, I...I love you, you know? I do love you, you silly bastard, I really do, and you're the worst thing that ever happened to me, but...Please."

He shakes his head, dark hair falling in his kind eyes, the eyes she fell in love with, so many years ago. Looking back to her, he frowns.

"I can't Marla. I just can't, I--"

He stops, leaning in, stealing a kiss from her before grabbing his hat, and opening the door to the outside, a beam of orange sunlight flooding in, bathing him in a halo of gold. She could cry, for how worried she is for him, even if she's flighty and awful and completely wrong for him.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, "Goodbye, Marla."

She can't say a thing, and instead sinks to her knees, for once devastated and heart broken. Smiling cynically, she wonders if this is how he felt when she fled their home to become a musician.

For once in her life, Marla Singer regrets her decision.

* * *

"I have to hand it to you, Mr. Hope," Alan says, "That's a very horrid way to die." He takes a sip from a glass of vintage wine before picking up his knife and fork, digging into the beef and potato stew the sailor's wife has cooked for them, smiling apologetically, and saying she had to see off a few friends from the harbor. 

Anthony had kissed her on her lips, both cheeks, and her forehead, taking her hands in his and telling her sternly and seriously to stick to busy streets, and to be sure not to get lost in the bad areas of the city.

Shaking her head, she snaps back that she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Anthony replies that it's his duty to protect her, and to make sure she's safe.

"I don't need that," she cries, looking distraught. "I don't need your protection; I need you to tell me you will trust me. Do you trust me, Anthony?"

He says nothing, instead shooting her a dangerous look, snatching up his napkin, and tucking it into his collar. She slams the door as she leaves.

"Mmm," the young man replies, nodding to Alan before shoving a forkful of meat and carrot into his mouth, chewing slowly.

"Where did you say you buried her, again? I'd like to know. That is, your associate, Mr. Bamford, wants to know."

Alan squirms in his seat as Anthony Hope smiles sadistically, swallowing his bite of food. He didn't want to do this. He never wanted to be put in such a position. But the Beadle Bamford paid him such a large sum of money, to take care of Mrs. Lovett, and to make sure her prescience was hidden from the world...He was required to repay the man by doing this favor, unless he had no regard for his life. Even if Marla said otherwise...

"Well," Anthony says, "You'll want to leave Venice."

"Hold on," Alan mutters, pulling a small piece of paper out of his pocket, and an expensive pen that required no inkwell.

Pausing until Alan readies his writing instrument, Hope continues.

"Go exactly north of the island where this city is located, and you'll end up in a sizeable port town. Simply head out onto the dirt road into wine country, and make a left at the Annegameto vineyard. Go to the central clearing in the grape fields, and lay a few flowers down near the well. That, my good man, is the grave and final resting place of Ms. Eleanor Lovett."

Dr. Singer's stomach twists, his heart thumping painfully when he thinks of poor Mrs. Lovett, floating in the waters of the well, dead and alone.

"Well?" Anthony looks at Alan over the rim of his wine glass.

"Well, what?"

Anthony coughs. "Is there anything else?" He glares expectantly, as if the sight of this man in his home, trespassing on his property and gandering at his wife is something he is only barely tolerating.

"Oh, well, I brought you a reward, from Mr. Bamford, for your service. And I also brought my own gift..."

Reaching down, he slides a wooden case onto the table, unlocking its padlock and handing Anthony a bag that clinks with money. The boy looks at it indifferently. It's clear the couple has money, enough to live on very comfortably, and although Alan knows not the source this funding stems from, he's sure this payment is really nothing more than an acknowledgment of his duty to Anthony Hope, rather than something he should be grateful for.

Smiling weakly, Alan produces the large decanter of gin, a fine make from the best producer in London.

Anthony nods approvingly, rising to grab two more glasses. When he returns, Alan pours him a large cup.

"You're not drinking any?"

"Oh," Alan says, shaking his head, "No, I'm fine to finish my wine. The gin is a gift, of course, from myself, so you may have as much as you like; it is yours now."

Raising his glass, Mr. Hope gulps it down quickly, coughing when he comes back up, face reddened.

"So tell me, Mr. Hope," he asks, "Which 'R' are you filled with?"

"Which are are?"

Grabbing the bottle, Anthony pours himself another glass, and frowns, confused.

"Which," Alan begins again, slowly, "Are you filled with? Relief, that an enemy of yours is slain, or Regret, that your good friend Mr. Todd will never be able to see her again and vice versa? Which 'R' are you filled with?"

There is a deep silence that fills the room, and in this moment of quiet, Anthony Hope's eyes soften and shine, the way young people's eyes usually do when they believe in the world, and in love eternal. He runs a finger along the edge of his glass of gin.

"A little bit of both," he whispers.

"I'm sure you do feel 'a little bit of both'," Alan quips, staring at him expectantly. "But I must specify...Which are you feeling the most?"

"Regret," he chokes out, once again a young man in love with an unattainable girl, wide-eyed and full of life, still faithful to the belief in righteousness. He isn't so sure anymore, and it's clear in his expression that he's battling internally. Part of him is withered and worn, having seen the evil men do. But another pat of him seems to want to be young again, in the way that he once was. But it's too late, Alan thinks. It's much too late for Anthony Hope.

"Hmm, well, that's something of a surprise. You know, I never met a woman like her before, Mr. Hope. So full of...of life, I suppose, despite these times we live in. She certainly was easy to kill, though, and I think it's something of a shame, don't you? To lose such a figure to the dust and the worms? And it's really quite..."

Suddenly, Alan Singer's voice fades away from his hearing, leaving an odd sound of silence in his ears, and Anthony's grip on the glass tightens, perplexity splashed upon his face with a touch of fear.

He opens his mouth to reply, only to find he can't quite breathe. Sputtering and gasping, he knocks aside the glass, pointing a shaking finger towards this henchman of the Beadle's, who is eying him curiously, an innocent expression of interest on his face as he holds his own cup of wine.

Alan Singer hadn't taken any gin. And now Anthony knows why.

Struggling for air, he collapses onto the floor, taking the table cloth and its contents with him, splattering money from the bag onto the wooden surface, a clanking noise that's a cacophony falling deaf upon his ears. His hearing fades in and out, and as he lies there, convulsing, helpless, Dr. Singer stands, setting down his glass.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Mr. Hope," he drawls lazily, "Did I put too much cyanide in your gin? I do apologize, the scent of almonds in the liquor, a quality of a cyanide laced drink, might have alerted you to its prescience, but I suppose you thought nothing could touch you now?"

His boot presses down on Anthony's chest.

"Ergh- _gah!_"

He is paralyzed, eyes flaring with such hate and intensity that Alan almost is afraid. But assuming his air of confidence, he thinks of Marla, and her words.

I love you. 

He knows she does, despite what she may say that implies otherwise. And Mrs. Lovett...He's sorry he couldn't save her, deeply sorry, but he's not too late to save his marriage, and his daughter. He owes Eleanor that, at least. In some way, he thinks she would have wanted him to do this. No, he knows she'd want someone to do this.

"I swear--" Anthony gasps. "Doctor Singer--"

"To me," he says, pressing down harder on his sternum, pushing Anthony back, arms locked, to gaze up, pleading with his eyes, to gaze upon the face of this man who showed up on his doorstep. "To me, the words of a murdering fool like you is worth less than nothing. But, while you're still lying here, I'd like to answer that question I asked of you just a few moments ago."

"The 'R' I most feel is Regret," he hisses. "Regret that Mrs. Lovett - one of the most remarkable women I've ever known - met her end at the hands of a doe-eyed, gullible, over-protective bastard like you. She deserved better."

Anthony heaves a gulp of air as the boot's end lifts off his chest, and, with his last breath, he whispers:

"I was half-convinced I'd waken, satisfied enough to dream you...Happily I was mistaken...Johanna..." 

And then, nothing at all.

Alan heaves a great sigh of relief, making crunching noises as he steps on shattered glass, surgeon's hands expertly picking up the golden coins and replacing them into their carrying bag, and then locks the wooden carrying case. He contemplates writing the wife a note, explaining and apologizing for this mess, but decides it would take too long. He has to return to his own wife, and leave this place, before he's caught. Instead, he rips off the piece of paper with its scribbled directions to Nellie's final resting place, and sets it down on the table.

Tipping his hat to the corpse once known as Anthony Hope, Dr. Alan Singer leaves and never looks back.

"That," he whispers to the sky, smiling, "Was for you, Mrs. Lovett."

* * *

Toby and Sweeney Todd are sitting with Johanna on a bench while the ship is being loaded with supplies, silent, as before, when a constabulary comes up to them, speaking in broken English.

"Excuse me," he says slowly, "Are you Miss Hope?"

Johanna, blonde and perfect, like a china doll in her fancy tailored clothes and skin, looks up curiously, worry creasing her face.

"Yes?"

"Your 'usband. 'E 'as been found dead, miss, in your home."

Her blue eyes widen, and Sweeney Todd frowns, immediately inquiring:

"How?"

The policeman turns, standing straight with perfect posture.

"Poison, sir. Cyanide, we think. The killer left a note..."

He reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out a piece of parchment. Johanna takes it into her small hands, and the three of them group around it to read its contents.

Center of clearing in vineyard

Final resting place of Eleanor Lovett 

Sweeney Todd looks as if he's been thrown another blow, already a dying man, now even closer to collapse than before. Toby grips his arm tightly, to keep him from swaying. Johanna starts to cry, and the constabulary hands her a hankerchief, then addresses them all.

"I will leave you to see off your father and brother, but we would like to 'ave a word with you, as soon as possible. Good day."

Todd winces at the use of "father", but ignores it, instead enveloping Johanna in a tight embrace as she starts to sob.

The ship's horn sounds, signaling that passenger must board. Toby hugs her quickly, and whispers how sorry he is, and Mr. Todd tells her that she may stay with them, in their home, if she'd like, once this is over. He doesn't say he's sorry, because truthfully, he isn't all that sad about Anthony's death. The boy set him on edge, as of late...Even so far as to be a bit like Turpin himself.

The parting is a sad one, and the two men leave her at the harbor, clutching the note, tear streaked face and tragic expression making her look like an abandoned bride.

In a coach coming into the center of Venice, Beadle Bamford is drumming his fingers impatiently on his knee, amusing himself by imagining all the way Mrs. Lovett could be killed, at this moment. The thought is a soothing balm to his nerves, and the idea of eliminating her is enough to make him very pleased.

Returning to Venice by way of a ferry, Mrs. Lovett herself is exhausted. Cursing herself for not bringing any money with her, she quickly makes way to the small inn she's staying at, praying that her things are still there.

Once she's back in the small room, she makes a quick check of all her remaining items before collapsing onto the bed, and into a deep, deserved sleep.

Before drifting off, however, she promises herself that tomorrow, she'll resume her pursuit of Sweeney Todd, but first, to attend to Anthony Hope and Beadle Bamford, who she's sure has something to do with this attempt on her life.

She won't really rest until they're all as dead as Judge Turpin himself.

And with this, she falls into a fitful, nightmare filled sleep.

* * *

AN: Well, there we go.

Mrs. Lovett is asking for a glass of water in Italian when she says "Per favore, ci porte dell'acqua."

And the name of the vineyard, Annegameto, means "drowning" in Italian. Ironic, no?

So Anthony dies...I had a hard time deciding whether or not to kill him, but I don't like his character all that much, and I wrote him to be so evil that I don't feel as bad about doing it.

Yaaaay Alan Singer. Nerdy doctors awesome.

Thanks again for all the reviews guys!

Next chapter: There Was a Barber and a Baker


	10. Part IX: There Was a Barber and a Baker

AN: I'm churning right along, aren't I? We're coasting into the finish line, folks! There's going to be about four or five more chapters, including this one. I already wrote the ending, but I'm still tweaking it to fit in some things.

Question for you reviewers: What are your feelings toward another story of one-shot epilogues that will follow this story? I have six written already, but I'm not sure if uploading them into a story would be overkill for this or not. Your thoughts are appreciated!

A lot of you confessed confusion towards Alan and Marla Singer's arguement in chapter 9. They're really just arguing about Alan's working for the Beadle, and how Marla strongly disapproves. Of course, they're a toxic couple, and not very good for each other, which also makes them fight a lot...

Anyhow, this is a somewhat contemplative chapter, after all the action in the previous one.

Bawww. Note: is being lame and not allowing me to spellcheck, so this is without corrections! Be warned.

**"Another knife in my hands...A stain that never comes off the sheets...Clean me off, I'm so dirty babe... The kind of dirty where the water never cleans of the clothes."**

**--- I Never Told You What I Do For a Living by My Chemical Romance**

**"The cold heart will burst if mistrusted first, and the calm heart will break, if you give it a shake..."**

**--- How My Heart Behaves by Feist**

**Part IX: There Was a Barber and a Baker**

After parting from his daughter, Sweeney Todd found himself lead onto the ship in a daze by a grim Tobias, who gripped his arm and sat him down on the bed in their cabin, and told him he'd be in the mess hall, getting water for them both.

_He's really very capable, just as she said, _he thinks.

Of course, he already knew this, from living with the boy under his roof for nearly six years now. But he can't quite find the strength to dwell on such petty things now.

The world seems very foggy to him right at this moment, blurry at its edges, much like the portrait of his wife and daughter that holds its own place on his mantelpiece at their small home, a reminder of a life that has been long lost.

When he laid eyes upon the woman he thought he had killed years before, lying there spilling blood (glorious rubies) on her precious bakehouse floor, he felt a swfit dropping of his stomach into a pit of confusion and quiet despair.

Sweeney knew instantly she was there to kill him, but...

But something in her eyes begged him to let him stay long enough so she could find some way to forgive him. As if the sight of him, sitting there, staring at her dumbfounded would save her from this person she's becoming. As if...she wants to find a reason to let him go.

And yet, he didn't stay. No, he didn't even sit still, and now she's actually, truly dead, drowned in a well in the Italian countryside, alone in the cold dark water.

He feels waves lapping up against the ship's egde all day, and he does not leave, ignoring the small flask of water Toby brings him. He can't possibly eat or drink, how could he?

This is much too much to take all at once, even for him. First, she's been dead for five years. Then she's back to kill him, and now, she's dead again.

"What am I supposed to do, I wonder," he says, hand running through his tangled black hair. He rushes to the small cabin's mirror and stares at himself.

Sweeney Todd is reminded of skeletal heretics in Medevial paintings, eyes sunken with years of suffering, faces white, thin from meals that have been witheld. Who would ever see something withing this demon to love as she does, or did? To do what Mrs. Lovett did for him, wasn't that some sort of love?

"It doesn't matter now. She's dead. It's...it's too late."

Oh, he can't be sure what to think of it all.

This entire episode has reminded him of when he was a small boy, and the older children had shown him a piece of chocolate, holding it up in front of him, then eating it. And then, producing another from a pocket, and repeating the procdeure, until he was left with nothing, and expected nothing.

It's one of the few things about his childhood he actually remembers. And it's exactly as if the same children are waving love and redemption in front of him, tantalizing him, then snatching it away, such as cruel fate does. He can only weather this so many times, without breaking. He's so fragile to begin with, anyway.

But...a part of Sweeney Todd wants to believe in her. To believe she's still alive, even after this. She survived him, and is the only one who could claim to have done so, so what's stopping her from miraculously survive a fall down into a dark well?

If there's one thing he knows he can do, it is expect everything and anything at this point.

Of course, if she does survive, Johanna will undoubtedly find her, and if that happens, he's sure the girl will hate him, or adore him for being the long lost parent she's always dreamed of having. But that of course depends on how much Mrs. Lovett chose to tell her about his past. Or her past. Or theirs, that seems the most appropriate. After all, they are so tightly intertwined now...

It is late in the night before he can no longer stand being cramped inside the tiny sleeping space, and he walks up into the salty night air, breathing deep.

The wind is refreshing, and it clears his mind. Closing his eyes, he sighs, feeling the sting of the breeze, the scent of the ocean and the rocking of the deck below his feet.

He missed the sea.

"Funny," he says to the night sky, "You were right about the ocean, Eleanor...I do love it, as you said I would..."

There's a stinging sensation in his eyes, and he wipes at them furiously.

They can't be tears; he cannot cry. Not Sweeney Todd.

Oh, he doesn't really regret the killing, or the actual bloodshed. No, he's honest enough with himself to know he has and always will love the killing. The red blood dripping everywhere, a sanguinary ballet before his very eyes.

But it's the aftermath that haunts him. The moments where he looks up from his book and opens his mouth to call her into the room, only to remember she's not there. The instances when he's looking out the window at the seaside, and he sees a woman with red hair along the shore, and for a brief second, his heart jumps and he thinks it was her, by her beloved sea.

Yes, that is Sweeney Todd's punishment, he thinks as he leans on the railing of the ship. To be forever haunted by her memory. Now that he's realized his own feelings for her, now is when she cannot be with him.

"I have suffered too much for one man, I should think," he mutters to nobody at all. "Can I not have some sort of peace now?"

It's all he wants, all he's ever wanted since he escaped prison. He wants to be able to sleep through the night without a single bad memory.

But that is impossible. And now it will be even less feasible, with the image of Mrs. Lovett alive and glaring at him, and the image of her, eyes dead and body cold.

Toby comes up next to him, a look of mourning of his face.

"Mr. Todd," he begins, "Can I ask you somethin'?"

"Yes?"

"I...I dunno what to feel, 'bout all this, y'know? She...We thought mum was dead for so long, an' then, she was alive, but now...she's really dead an' gone...I dunno why, but I don't feel much dif'rent than afore she was really alive. Like, that it's jus' the same as it was before we found out she wasn't dead, an' we was both gettin' on with life. And now, I can't feel nothin' but a bit of sadness about it, cos we really didn't get to change anything. Is that...is that alright, Mr. Todd?"

He's got a look of such tortured guilt Sweeney almost feels sorry for him. Almost thinks the boy can relate to his own set of dilemmas.

"I think, Tobias, that she wouldn't blame you for feeling no different...We really hadnt had a chance to recover from the news of her surviving, before we got the new she died. So, I think...I think it's alright."

Toby's bottom lip quivers, and he suddenly wraps his arms about Sweeney in an awkward hug. He is still such a child, even with his being fifteen. Coughing stiffly, Todd loops his arm about the boy's thin shoulders, and pats him quickly, then releases him.

Sniffling, he sets his jaw, and looks to the ocean.

"I want to believe she's alive, Mr. Todd. Don't you?"

He thinks of her, and he's not sure. She's certainly going to kill him, if she has lived. Or escaped, or whatever it is she's done to get of the mess she's in.

Yet...the thought seeing her again, if she is indeed alive makes him soar, just imagining it.

"Yes," he finally says. "I do think...I would like to believe she lives still, Tobias. But I do not see it sensible to get our hopes up concerning it, you understand?"

"I do, sir. But it's pleasant to think of all the same," Toby insists, wiping his eyes.

Sweeney Todd could not agree with him more.

_Whatever happens, will happen. And I will be ready for it, Eleanor. _

_I will be ready. _

* * *

Her dreams are fitful, and she tosses and turns about in her small hotel bed, and when she's startled awake by the insistent pounding on her door, Nellie finds herself to be quite entangled in her bedsheets, which are wrapped inexplicably about her waist. 

Fists pound upon the wooden door to her chambers, and there's a quiet voice accompanying it, which is gradually growing more frantic and distressed.

Sitting up, Mrs. Lovett blinks her eyes and stares at the door cautiously, listening as her visitor hits upon the wooden blockade with all their might.

"M-Mrs. Lovett," the voice calls, now easily distinguished as a woman's, "Mrs. Lovett, oh please, please open the door, please, don't be dead, Mrs. Lovett, please open the door."

Getting up from the bed, dragging the ever constant sheets along with her, she stumbles to the door (her legs ache from the strain of walking such a ways to get back to this room, and from the great effort of climbing the well's slippery sides), cursing under her breath and wondering aloud who in heaven's name ( or hell's, more likely) was calling upon her at such an hour.

Undoing the latch on the carved door, it screeches on its hinges, a reminder of how poor an inn this was, being cheap and a perfect prospect for Nellie, who had spent the majority of her savings getting to Venice in the first place.

The door is opened a crack by her cautious, dextrerous hands, and there, standing before her, is Lucy Barker.

Or so she thinks, for a brief instant, before realizing it is not her at all, come to haunt Eleanor forever, but her daughter, Johanna, whose face is like a delicate china doll's and is turned up in a smile of relief and tired sadness.

"Mrs. Lovett--" she begins, but the woman being inquired after does nothing and says nothing, but to slam the door back upon the young woman and hold her head in her hands.

From her position directly next to the thin door, Johanan can hear her murmuring:

"Oh, this is bloody lovely, what's she here for?"

In response, Johanna calls:

"Ma'am, I'm so relieved to find you alive. You have no idea how glad it is to see you at last. Toby tells me so much about you, and I'm honored. The two of them, Mr. Todd and Tobias, I mean, they hold you in such esteem...Mrs. Lovett, I beg of you to allow me your company to an early lunch...Or at least, may I have a word? I must speak with you..."

There is a hesitant silence, and Nellie frowns stubbornly. A long time ago, she had loved the little girl as if she was like her own child, and cared for her as such, what with that silly thing of a mother flitting about like a flippant butterfly about London, giggling and smiling and oh so beautiful...

And even when Mr. Todd had returned, and all seemed lost, she had suggested to him that she could be Johanna's mother, if they got her back...

Finally, her guilt towards shutting the girl out, and her rememberance of fonder days makes her open the door again, assuming an air of seriousness. After all, the girl could be inquiring after anything.

Johanna looks so grateful, and she bows low, chattering words of thanks and other nonsense that Nellie waves away and silences with a small motion of her hand, holding open the door to allow the young woman inside.

Johanna sits in the small parlor area while Mrs. Lovett changes into a spare set of clothes, eying the ragged and dirty dress from Mrs. Lovett's adevnture into the well with fright and shock.

"You...Were you really in a well, ma'am?"

Deeming it a question safe enough to answer, Nellie nods as she appears again, pinning up her hair with various hairpins as she slips her feet into shoes.

"That I was, miss," she confesses, "But I escaped, bless the gods above for that. Don't ask me 'ow I did it, though, I scarcely know myself. Now...You said you were 'ere to inquire after me? May I ask as to what purpose, Miss Hope?"

Johanna frowns nervously. "How do you know my last name, ma'am?"

_Oh no._

"I...I, ah, y'see, I was aquainted with your sailor boy, Anthony, his name was, wasn't it? 'E spoke fondly of how you two were to be wed. I thought, with your ring, your name had changed to his own?"

_That was entirely too close._

Johanna seems somewhat satisfied with this story, and upon the mention of Anthony, she bursts into tears, fingering the gold band about her finger as she cries. Mrs. Lovett whispers to her, patting her shoulder stiffly, and when Johanna has composed herself, she apologizes profusely.

"I'm...I'm so sorry, Mrs. Lovett...You see, my husband..." she breaks into a sob, then continues, "He was found dead, yesterday evening. Poisoned in our home."

Eleanor is instantly alert, and she knows without a doubt that it is the Beadle behind all of this. Poison is just his signature...Cowardly but deadly nonetheless.

"Police are investigating the case, but no one has any leads. The killer, however, left a small note at the house, writing of your location in a well...I had hoped it wasn't true, Mrs. Lovett...For you see..."

Her blue eyes flash with determination, and Nellie is reminded so strongly of Mr. Todd himself that the resembalance between father and daughter is suddenly thrown out into the light, and she watches how Johanna frowns in way most like him, and how her lip juts out when she is thinking of the correct words, and how her face seems so desolately sad, even when there is nothing to show that she is indeed mournful. It sickens her and fascinates her at the same time, and the result is rather disarming for Mrs. Lovett.

"...I was told that you, Mrs. Lovett, would tell me of my true parents. You knew them, did you not?"

And then the moment is ruined, and Nellie sighs loudly.

"That was a very long time ago, Miss," she starts, but Johanna shakes her head strongly, clasping Mrs. Lovett's hands within her own tiny doll's hands, and looks at her pleadingly.

"Please, ma'am. Mr. Todd said...He said you would tell me, if I said that he felt I had a right to know of my mother and father...He said it was only fitting you should tell me."

_That absolute bastard._

So this is how he would play, was it? She lied to him, and now, he spites her by forcing the truth out of her mouth and into the ears of his daughter, the only innocent left aside from Toby, whose true nature is unknown to her now, after so many years away.

She sighs again, threading a pin through her persistent locks of hair, and nods in a lurching, dreadful way, as if she was being pulled by a string, and forced to agree to this.

Suddenly, an idea dawns upon her, and she looks to Johanna.

"I'll tell you everything, Johanna. But you must promise me one thing in return."

"Of course," she agrees, "Anything, ma'am."

Mrs. Lovett smiles wickedly.

"I want you to tell me exactly where Mr. Todd lives."

* * *

"Where shall I begin?" 

Mrs. Lovett stabs a forkful of alfredo and noodles, twirling the untensily quickly and skillfully, looking up at the ornately painted ceiling, musing about the past.

"From the beginning, of course," Johanna says, "And then, when you get to the end, stop."

"Yes," Mrs. Lovett replies, "Allow me a few minutes to get the story in order, mind, it's certainly not as clear in me 'ead as it once was..."

Johanna sits patiently, her ordered food untouched for excitement and anxiousness, watching this strange woman, who seems to be inhuman, for all the damage she has weathered, now chewing thoughtfully on the exotic Italian cuisine, her eyes lost in another world, another time.

It is certainly fascinating to watch.

Finally, Nellie sets down her fork, and, fiddling with the corner of her napkin, she begins:

"Well...I am not quite sure how much Mr. Todd wants me to tell you, but I s'pose he is assuming I'm going to tell you all of it, and spare no detail. But...I must first say that this account is from my own point of view, and is in no way a relflection of his own side of this tale...I'm inclined to imagine it a bit differently than him, I'm sure."

Johanna says slowly that she understands, but she's not sure what Mrs. Lovett means by this statement.

"There was a barber and a baker...No, that's too cliche, I think. Wait a second..."

She pauses again.

"Alright. Well, I suppose I should begin with my own story. Or some of it..."

"I was about your age, I expect, when I married my late husband, Albert, bless his soul. We lived and operated a butcher shop in Fleet Street. I don't suppose you'd know it, though, what with Turpin keeping you all locked away...Anyhow, I met a man named Benjamin Barker around that time. And 'e was the most lovely thing you'd ever lay eyes on..."

She smiles sadly, though Johanna is again somewhat confused as to why.

"We rented out the top room above the shop to 'im, for a while, and he was so wonderful...Brought flowers for me and everything...And then he met Lucy. They were married, of course, right away, and they had a baby girl not too late after that. Benjamin was a barber of great reknown, and made a steady income. 'E was a good father to his daughter...But his wife, I can't say the same for...Perhaps it's because I loved him, and I was so jealous of her. You...You look so much like her, Miss Johanna. I thought, when I saw you...I thought you were her, actually..."

Johanna grips the tablecloth. "Are...are you saying that these people...Mr. Barker, and Mrs. Barker...They were my parents?"

The reply is somehow hesitant.

"Yes."

"But...You loved my father?"

Again, a slight hesitation, and then, "Yes. I did. Does that trouble you?"

"I...No, I don't suppose it does. Nothing happened between you, did it?"

"No."

Johanna nods. "Please keep going, if there is more?"

"Well...There was this judge, you see...He was in love with your mum, Lucy. Wanted 'er, for her looks, I expect. She was a pretty thing, I'll give 'er that. He...He had your father tried and convicted falsely of some silly crime...And shipped 'im to Australia. Botony Bay. Lucy was so devasted...The judge, he starts callin' on her, but she stays up there in her room, walking you about, crying her eyes out...But then, the Beadle, he comes an' he says the judge feels awful about what happened to your dad, so he wants Lucy to come and speak with him..."

Mrs. Lovett's expression darkens.

"But he was holding this ball, a masquerade. They drugged her, and...Well, he left her worse than before. She...she was so distraught, she went an' poisoned herself. The judge, of course, 'e swept you up and adopted you, and...well, you know the rest of that."

She looks at Johanna, as if she's hoping this is enough, but the girl seems determined.

"And what of Benjamin Barker, my father? Did he stay in Australia?"

"I..."

"I will not tell you where Mr. Todd is, if you do not hold up your end of the bargain," she threatens.

"Yes, yes, he escaped. Got by on a raft, tossed about in a storm, 'til a sailor boy named Anthony Hope spotted 'im in a storm..."

Mrs. Lovett watches in interest as Johanna's face changes rapidly as she puts the pieces together, and chokes out a stammered:

"N-no...No, it couldn't possibly..."

"That's what I thought too, when 'e stepped into my shop, but...He is Benjamin Barker, or was. It's complicated, I think, but...He is not that man any longer. He's goes by Sweeney Todd now, though I suppose you already figured that out."

"But...but then...why did he return, if he wasn't coming to get me? To save me?"

"He...he only wanted revenge, dear. On the judge. Especially after I told him about your mother. But...I didn't tell him your mother was alive...The poison, it addled her brain. She was a mad beggarwoman, didn't even recognize him. And he didn't recognize her...He killed her, then he found out she was Lucy..."

"Then it's true..." Johanna is crying again now, a trait of hers that Nellie is finding irritating a guilt-wracking. "He killed you, or tried to. For lying. And he killed Turpin for ruining his life. He...he really was a killer. And you're his accomplice."

She looks at Mrs. Lovett, fearful.

"What are you going to do, ma'am?"

"If you're concerned for yourself, I'm not 'ere to kill you. Really. Now, I've told you everything. Tell me where he is, and I'll be on my way..."

Johanna sniffles. "Are...are you going to kill him? Mr. Todd?"

Mrs. Lovett decides not answer this question. Johanna seems to struggle with herself, before finally gulping and nodding in consent.

"He lives in this village, in the southern area of London..." She hands Nellie a small map with a marked route on it in red ink. "By the sea..."

The remark was only meant to be descriptive of his location, but Mrs. Lovett, taking a drink from her water glass, grips the thing so tightly it shatters, her eyes wide with rage Johanna has never witnessed, except in her foster father, and Mr. Todd, that night this same woman made her prescence known to them.

"You're...you're lying. By the sea! By the ocean, that...ohhh, he...agggh!"

She wipes her hands on a tablecloth, snatching up the map and nodding to Johanna.

"I...I always liked you, Johanna," she says, hasty and flushed with anger, "You...I'm sorry for all this. I'm sure you've been hurt quite a lot by all of this...It's a pity, really. Now, I must leave...I have an appointment to make with Beadle Bamford."

Johanna sits at the table, staring at the glass shards with their red flecks, blood staining the white of the table covering. She can't find it in herself to cry about this anymore.

So much has happened in so little time...

But she knows one thing for certain. If there's one thing she has to do, it's warn her father of this eccentric woman who was once his partner in crime. She has to tell him.

After all, how else can he see Mrs. Lovett again?

* * *

AN: Well, I wonder if you all spotted the Alice and Wonderland quote? 

Anyhow, this is something of a set-up for the final three chapters to come...

From here on in, we're heading to the conclusion...

Stay tuned for the next installment!

**Next chapter: Showdown at The House of Blue Leaves**


	11. X: Showdown At The House of Blue Leaves

AN: Now, I must confess...I wrote this story for a lot of reasons, but to be truthful...

One of those reasons was so I could write this chapter. So, naturally, it's going to be some _intense_ fun.

I also apologize profusely for not updating in so long! I feel awful. Homework and tests caught up to me, and I had an awful week wading through the maze of math and English homework...So, this chapter is extra-long to compensate.

Enjoy as always!

And, I totally forgot this for all the chapters before this...I do not own Sweeney Todd, or its affiliates. I wish I did, I really, really do.

* * *

**"Back in the kingdom we were kings and queens and oh so strong, that God himself could not contain us. We never thoughts we'd be the shorter end of sword and gun, now He himself could never save us."**

**--- One Last Song by Josiah Leming**

**"And don't stop, if I fall, and don't look back. Oh baby, don't stop, bury me, and fade to black..."**

**--- Hang 'Em High by My Chemical Romance**

**Part X: Showdown At The House of Blue Leaves**

The Venice city was divided into many quarters and sections, and the state of these streets and houses ranged from extravagantly wealthy to depressingly filthy.

Normally, given his appearance and impression of being a disgusting man who associated with disgusting people, Mrs. Lovett would assume Beadle Bamford would be located in one of the poorer areas, standing there in faux furs and leather coats (hand tailored, she's sure), looking like a king who has decided to grace the lower masses with his presence.

Normally, she would have been right.

But after hours of searching, her quest to locate him in one of his lucrative opium dens, or brothels has turned up nothing, and she is heading back to the hotel, dejected and frustrated, before she decides to pay the Casa del Lametta another visit to pick up a strong drink before resuming her hunt.

The daylight hours no doubt are a cause of the restaurant's empty tables, not that Nellie minds. In fact, the hollowness of the large room is somewhat comforting to her, after the cramped darkness of the well in the vineyard.

Indeed, the only occupants of the entire building are a man and a woman at the bar, sitting side by side. Several empty glasses sit in front of them, evidence of how long they've been here, feet touching under their bar-stools, the woman's pale legs ending in bare feet, her shoes below them, on the floor. The man's dark hair is tangled by hands that continuously run through it, a desperate motion, as if he's attempting to pull himself up and out of his chair by the hairs on his head. Stumbling up to them, she clears her throat loudly.

The woman revolves 'round in her seat first, and Nellie recognizes her as the singer from a few nights previous. Dark, charcoal lined eyes widen at the sight of their guest, and her hair flutters about her head as she shakes it in disbelief.

Dr. Alan Singer turns about as well, gaze falling on her, a chocked groan escaping his lips. He returns to his drink, again repeating his motion of running hands nervously through his dark hair, whispering curses under his breath.

Marla Singer whistles, aghast.

"You want a drink," she murmurs, "I should think? Hah, that rhymes. You're the woman in love, aren't you? The one who made a scene."

"I s'pose that's me, yes," Nellie replies stiffly, sitting down on Dr. Singer's opposite side. "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated."

"What'll it be?" Marla asks as she stands up on her chair, hopping up onto the counter, toes bare, then jumping down with a nimbleness that is rather youthful.

"Anything strong, if you please...Actually, the strongest you 'ave."

The two them, Alan and Nellie, sit side by side in silence as Marla bustles behind the bar, humming an odd tune, pouring several different things into a large glass.

"I killed Anthony Hope," he finally blurts out, looking at her with a face of panic and dread. "I poisoned him, when I went to deliver the money for the Bead-- I mean, when I heard you had been murdered by him..."

He winces at his slip of the tongue; he had never meant her to know of this association.

"I knew Bamford was behind this somehow," Mrs. Lovett quips lightly as she takes the drink from Marla, sipping quickly. "'E was so scared of me, last I saw 'im...I figured 'e'd be up to somethin', interferin' in my business, which is his business too, 'course, since 'e is payin' me for me services..."

She stops, hand over her mouth and Alan stares in shock. So he's not the only one being employed by the man in charge of London's underworld. He hadn't realized or considered this woman, whom he had thought to be fairly delicate, could hold such liquor, or perform any sort of business for Beadle Bamford, at least, nothing concerning the killing of human beings. But...if Marla had told him the truth, she must truly know Sweeney Todd, and if she truly knew that man, then...She must have done all the things she was rumored to have done, chopping bodies into tiny squares, grinding them in through a butcher's grinder, cooking them into pies...And without batting an eye, no less.

He's afraid of her now, himself.

"I mean...Er..." She sighs. "Well, I'm quite done lying, it's brought me nothing but trouble so far, so...Yes, I'm being paid by the Beadle to kill Mr. Todd. Or, well, I'm payin' him back for footin' my hospital bills, that is. But I am 'ere to kill Mr. Todd, payment or no. Before I do that, though, I need to settle something with Bamford himself. Y'know where 'e is, Doctor?"

"Y-yes, I do. I'll take you to him, if you'd like. He's at The House of Blue Leaves," Alan replies, feeling extremely weary.

At this information, his companion downs the rest of her beverage in one large gulp, smacking her lips and giving a small shiver at the bitterness of the drink in such a volume, so suddenly. Then, hopping off the stool, she puts hands on her hips, eying him expectantly like a small, excited young girl. Alan is reminded of his daughter when she was younger, urging him to hurry and play with her. Smiling at this thought, he nods a goodbye to his wife, who's pouring herself another drink absentmindedly, blowing him a kiss and mouthing the words "be careful".

* * *

The House of Blue Leaves, or "La Casa di Foglie Blu" in native Italian, was once the pinnacle of Italy's reputation as being a center of artfully done architecture: it's wide, cream colored stones were placed and smoothed as if each one had been placed so in such a loving way, like a mother bidding her child goodbye. There, on the roof, as was the fashion for Venetian buildings, were stone sculpted angels, holding in their arms baskets of plants, and flowers, gazing upwards to the heavens, caught and frozen in stone during their leap through the air. Over its entrance, a marble woman spread her arms, leaves woven into her long, delicate hair, eyes gazing downwards as guests streamed into the restaurant and hotel below her archway. 

The inside archways were intricately laden in gold paint, with a gorgeous ceiling painting of swaying trees in a large meadow, with a clearing that contained a pond and small shrubs, and (most famously) several twisting and gnarled trees whose bold blue leaves tumbled eternally towards the forest ground. Below this was a foyer full of small chairs and tables for having drinks and discussing light things while waiting for a table, and to every side of this large, circular room were grand hallways leading into private dining areas, each themed after various landscapes in Italy and Europe.

This was, of course, years previous.

Since its passing of hands from the family owners who had so lovingly tended to its interior and exterior, the new proprietors of The House of Blue Leaves were wealthy criminals who had had a notion to buy such a restaurant. They had allowed the whole thing to fall into a sad state of disrepair, and the place was now used only as a dining destination for wealthy businessmen who cared not for the employers and the owners, but enjoyed the idea of eating in such a lavish place, and of course, any sort of leader in the underworld.

Making the garish place the ideal meeting area for Beadle Bamford, who, in his ignorance, had completely lost the thought that this restaurant was not as it seemed. However, his reputation guaranteed him the best treatment, and he let the small, nagging feeling of dread escape his tiny mind, and laid back to watch as people fed his ego.

Outside, the angels and the lady guardian were worn by wind and rain, looking rather beaten, and Mrs. Lovett and Alan Singer stood at the place's entrance, looking up rather forlornly at this building, which clearly was once so wonderful to behold.

"This is where 'e is? You are quite certain?"

Alan nods, still looking up with curious sadness at the woman in the archway.

"Yes, Mrs. Lovett," he reassures her, "I am very, very certain. I met him here before, to discuss my duty. He's staying here for the remainder of his visit, which is to end tomorrow, for today is the meeting between himself and the two lords of the Italian and Parisian underworlds. Then, he is returning to London, I think."

"Ah," she mutters, obviously distracted. Giving a curt look of respect to the arching goddess, whose leaf-spattered hair had been so dulled that she appeared to have only knots in it, she strides to the doorstep and enters into the rundown foyer, Dr. Singer reluctantly following.

They sit in two moth-eaten chairs, and Alan leans forward, glancing suspiciously at everyone about them.

"Mrs. Lovett, I would like very much to go with you," he stammers. "I do not want you to be killed, and perhaps, if things go wrong, I can negotiate with him..."

"No," she snaps, stiffening, and he can see her whole body and soul is being coated in stone, hardening her for this act she must do. "You are welcome to follow, Doctor, but do not help me. I need no help."

Then, watching carefully, the two of them see a group of well-dressed men stride down the north hallway into the largest dining room, the Versailles room, decorated after the famous French palace.

Mrs. Lovett rises quickly, ducking behind their group of large, muscular guards, obscured from sight, and Alan follows rather behind, heart hammering in his chest. He watches as his companion pulls a knife, gleaming and silver, from her coat and grips it tightly, as if to reassure herself.

* * *

They make it into the room and manage to stand behind several tall, ominous looking men who are dressed in crisp black suits and sharp, gleaming obsidian shoes. At the long, polished table, they see Beadle Bamford, feasting rather disgustingly upon lobster, crab, pork and other fine dishes, a Frenchman, dressed finest of the three, in gold and light blue, nibbling at his meal with his heavily jeweled right hand as he brandishes a large pistol in his other hand, menacing, and a thin, brooding Italian, with dark, slicked back hair, who is eating nothing at all. 

"So, gentleman," the Italian says, and his voice is as cool as the ice in his drink, "We have come here to meet and discuss business. Shall we dine, first, and then proceed, or would you rather do the opposite?"

His English is perfect, but his accent remains.

The Frenchman waves about his fork, and point to the Italian.

"You are ze new leader, are you not? This, ah, this...Michael Corleone, is it? Why do you come, instead of your father, Vito, mm? 'E is ze man I like, ze man I respect. Not this boy. Why so serious, mmn?"

Mr. Corleone's face flickers red for an instant, and then, tilting his head, he smiles.

"Monsieur Pendule, I would very much appreciate it," and at this, he pauses, to pull out a large hatchet, "If your remarks were aimed towards being productive at this time. My father is dead. He died a day ago, and I am the Don now. I have been instructed that we, the Italians, are holding this on our ground, and we are to be treated with...respect."

At this final word, he flings the hatchet into the table, setting it deep into the wood. Mr. Pendule pales, and his eyes widen, fork frozen, and he slowly nods his understanding. The room is silent, save the crunching and slurping noises coming from the Beadle's constantly churning mouth.

Folding his hands delicately, Corleone nods as well.

"It shall be dining first, I think."

He snaps calm orders to a line of waiters at the table's side, who immediately vanish, off into the vast kitchens. Mrs. Lovett shifts, and squirms through to be concealed behind a large potted plant, and Alan stands at the plant in the corner yards away, whimpering.

Suddenly, Nellie starts, and points to Alan, pantomiming choking on something. Frowning, Alan shakes his head, not understanding, and then...she mouths 'Anthony', and he almost cries out in amazement at her brilliance. He mouths back 'I'll take care of it', accompanied by several odd motions she doesn't seem to grasp, but she gestures with her hands for him to carry on, and so he slips in through the kitchen door in to his right, in the corner, and is not seen. His last view of Mrs. Lovett is of her face, lips pursed in concentration, eyes flashing with wildfire anger.

The kitchen is a cacophony of noise, metal things clanging about, birds squawking somewhere distant, men yelling in Italian to one another, and he watches as they point rather frantically to certain dishes, repeating the name Corleone. From this, he can surmise that these particular meals are for the part of three, and he slips his hand rather quickly into his coat pocket and produces the vial of cyanide, a smirk sliding to his features at this cleverness.

Grabbing a large pan from the counter, he ducks into a corner between two barrels, near the doorway into the Versailles room, and when a young waiter about his size reaches over to snatch two potatoes, he slams the metal thing down and drags the young man over to a corner, tucking a bottle of wine into his hand, as evidence, which would ensure his own innocence in this crime. Then, they trade clothes, and he slicks back his own dark hair and slides out into the dining hall, carrying a tray of soups, setting it down and mumbling to conceal his poor Italian that their soup is served.

Corleone eyes him, suspicion aroused momentarily, but Alan sets his jaw and bows low before returning to his place, behind the large shrub. Mrs. Lovett beams at him, and gives him a thumbs up.

The men surrounding the table's perimeter look on as Corleone and Pendule ladle spoons into the bowls. Looking up, Michael asks:

"I apologize, Mr. Bamford. Did you care for some of this...?"

The Beadle shakes his head, mouth full of lasagna. "I'm quite fine, thanks."

Shrugging, the two other men take large gulps of the liquid, and nod their acceptance of it, when suddenly...

Mr. Corleone spits the soup out rather forcefully, coughing violently, yelling loudly in Italian. His bodyguards race forward, one handing the man a small bottle which he gulps down faster than anything, and the others producing weapons and proceeding to open fire throughout the room, obviously being commanded to eliminate these men who betrayed the trust.

Pendule chokes on his own, already-swallowed mouthful, sudden realization dawning on his face in horror. He manages to choke out a command to his own men, and Beadle Bamford ducks under the table, yelling at his soldiers, who also pull out weapons. The room is chaos.

At last, when the smoke clears, Corleone is bleeding and still-coughing, Pendule is dead, and almost all the henchman are wounded or deceased. The remaining henchman of the Italian group lift their leader upon their shoulders and run out of the room, calling for a carriage to take them to the hospital. The Frenchmen flee as well, leaving Bamford to rise from below, eyes wide, to glance about at his final three men.

At this point, Mrs. Lovett stands up.

"Hello, Beadle," she says flatly. "You enjoy our little gift? The poison's quite handy, actually."

Alan scrambles to his feet, still dressed as a waiter, and Bamford seems to snap.

The stress of the day was already too much; to add onto it the burden of this woman, returning from the dead, and the reappearance of Mr. Singer, which confirms his suspicions as to who did the killing of Mr. Hope, Beadle Bamford begins to chuckle.

The small laughter turns into a roar, maddening and frightful, and he turns over the great table with an inhuman strength, as if possessed, advancing towards them, gripping his own pistol.

"You can't win," he screeches, eyes widening like saucers, spit coming from his quick-moving mouth. "You can't you can't you can't I won't let you win, you see, I can't let you."

He continues the mumbling, like a mantra, circling now underneath the great golden, crystal glass chandelier.

The ceiling of the room is full of bullet holes, and the chandelier sways slowly...

Mrs. Lovett gazes intently at Bamford, then to the chandelier. Then back again.

It sways, and cracks develop around it...

Beadle Bamford yells, pointing at her:

"You! You! You are the wife of the _devil_. Who would kill me in my sleep, and leave my body for you, to strip clean and cook in the flames of Hell! You! You! I can't let you win, you see? I can't I can't I can't..."

Mrs. Lovett bends down, picking up a gun off the floor, discarded but loaded still, and aims for the ceiling surrounding the chandelier while simultaneously stepping backwards quickly while pulling Alan with her.

There is a tremendous cracking noise, the sound of crumbling plaster, and the Beadle's face is initially pulled into a look of triumph. He thinks she's missed him, and wrongly assumes her target was his own body.

His expression quickly changes when he hears the snapping of a chain, the great heaving of something very heavy being propelled downwards, and he screams in horror once, and then is no more as a great, amazing crash rings about the room, cracking the floor and sending dust flying, bodies shifting and the whole room to heave violently. The men flee in the commotion, and all that remains as evidence that Beadle Bamford was ever a powerful man is his unharmed hand, which bears several real golden rings.

Mrs. Lovett and Alan Singer stand in silence, and finally, he laughs, shaking his head.

"He did die rather extravagantly, which is fitting, I think."

"Mmm," Nellie replies, fingering the trigger of the gun before pocketing this and her unused knife.

"I think...I think we should leave now," Alan says, and he pulls her through the kitchen, in which the waiters and chefs still stand, frozen on the spot in fear, clutching their kitchen utensils as their food burns, ruined. They escape out a back way, into the sunlight, and collapse onto a bench near a canal's edge.

"Dr. Singer..." Nellie begins, then stops. "Alan."

"Yes?"

"Thank you, for everything you've done for me. I...I don't blame you for working for 'im."

"Thank you, for forgiving me, and for always listening to all my silly stories," he says, touching her shoulder briefly.

She smiles weakly, seeming weary from being so serious and grave.

"They aren't silly," she tells him rather sternly. "Don't forget them, Alan. Don't ever forget them."

"What will you do now?" He watches as she looks onto the green waters in front of them, as if asking herself the same thing. In her eyes, he sees a million pains and aches, a million nightmares and longings. He sees, as Marla saw before him, that she is in love, but he also sees, as Marla did not, that she is not aware of it.

"I am going," she says, rising slowly, "To the sea...to kill the man who killed me."

She kisses his cheek, and then leaves, and he watches her back as she leaves, striding with purpose.

True to her vow to the Mooneys, and her promises to herself, she doesn't look back.

* * *

Sitting on his porch, in a wicker chaise lounge, Sweeney Todd is drinking wine as he watches a small figure make its way over the dunes towards the solitary home by the ocean's crashing waves and windy sands. As if comes closer, he stands. 

"Johanna," he breathes, almost in song as he thinks of his lovely daughter.

When she finally comes up the stairs, winded and hair mussed, he has poured her wine which she drinks gratefully, and then, smiles sweetly.

"Hello," she begins, then, her face darkens. "...Father."

He winces. So she's been told.

"Don't call me that," he protests, pouring himself more wine. "I am not deserving of any such title as that. I'm unfit to be anyone's father."

"You're Toby's," she snaps, and it's clear she's irritated, though not with this truth she's discovered. No, she seems more irritated at his behavior.

"I never chose to be," he says, smirking and looking out to the sands. "The boy thinks of me as such, I do nothing to encourage it."

"And yet, you do not stifle it as you do my own view of you as a parent."

"This is because I don't see any point in stifling his thoughts; he is a boy, and he is not my son. But you are my daughter. Not necessarily in affection, but by blood. I am nothing but your maker; I hold no responsibility for your upbringing. In fact, though it pains me to say it, if anyone is to be credited, it is Judge Turpin who raised you."

She slaps him, tears forming in her eyes.

"No! I never thought of him as anything but my jailer. Why must you steep yourself in self-pity, _Mr. Todd?_ It is pathetic. I want you as my father, even if you aren't the man you once were. I will not back down, until you consent."

Shrugging, he merely drinks, then, silence. The wind and the waves echo, but no voices can be heard.

Finally, Johanna sighs.

"I came here," she says slowly, "To inform you that Mrs. Lovett is still alive. And she is coming to kill you. I thought that you would want to know, and prepare?"

"Hmm."

"Answer me, please," she begs, worried for him.

"My dear daughter," he says slowly, and looking at her, she sees he's close to tears, "I have thought of you for so long; but I am not going to fool you, and say I am changed enough to care for you. I let go of any hopes I had of ever seeing you again; I cannot salvage these hopes and emotions. As for Mrs. Lovett...Let her come."

Johanna begins to cry now as well, setting down her glass, and picking up her hat to make to leave.

"I beg you," she tells him shakily, "Please...please reconsider your precautions. She's going to kill you; I have no doubt of it. She may have loved you, but she holds it no longer."

Sweeney Todd shakes his head.

"Forgive me for saying so, but what do you know about love? You are young...Life has been different for you...But you will learn. I say let her come; I am not afraid, and I am ready for her. Let her come, and we'll see what happens, mm?"

His daughter can do nothing more, for he is stubborn. Instead, she shakes her head and makes her way down the long, arduous path towards town, away from the sea, until she's nothing but a speck on the horizon.

* * *

AN: Well, here's some fun tidbits from this chapter: 

Michael Corleone and his family, the Italian mob in this chapter are the main characters of the Godfather series, a terrific movie and book. I felt it only fitting they make an apperance, seeing as we are set in Italy.

Mr. Pendule's name is a French word for clock.

When Mrs. Lovett says "The rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated", she is quoting Mark Twain, a celebrated American writer.

Looking back, the kitchen scene reminds of the movie The Witches...remember that movie:D

Thanks for reading! Reviews are loved and cherished!

**Next chapter: Part XI: Abscence Makes The Heart...**

**And**

**Final Chapter: Part XII: Lovely Wounds**

**Note: the last two chapters, and the end credits chapter (bonus information, thank-you's, the actual end credits, movie style) will all be submitted in the same go, so you're all going to have a bit of reading to do. I hope you won't mind.**


	12. XI: Absence Makes The Heart

AN: Last two chapters, coming right up!

I actually used Google Earth to find a small, coastal town nearby a beach in the southern part of Britain, to set for "the sea". It's called Little Sennen in actuality and its population is about 180 persons. So, it's a very, very small village.

However, in my story, it's called Moutons, which is French for "white-capped waves".

Enjoy these last two chapters, folks!

* * *

**"They were in the habit of taking things for granted (granted, they never quite knew what they had) and the only thing constant was the constant reminder they'd never change."**

** --- You Owe Me An IOU by Hot Hot Heat**

**"The Gods have spoken, the spell is broken, and love will tear us...love will tears us apart.**

**This life can only leave us lonely, there's no tomorrow; just another little hole in my heart..."**

** --- Another Little Hole by Aqualung**

**Part XI: Absence Makes The Heart...**

The village of Moutons was only a large main street, and two branching side streets, directly built onto the cliffs of a cove, by the sea.

There, in the downtown area, one could find all the necessities one would need: food, housing, clothing, a post office and bank, even a small newspaper stand. Being such a small village, everyone knew everyone else's business, and everyone knew about the mysterious man and his supposed "son", who lived in the run down shack by the beach.

But they didn't know anything, really, save for that the man was well-dressed and incredibly polite, intensely silent, and had said he was a writer. The boy was rather friendly, but also courteous, always wearing caps jammed tightly over his head. Some people believed he had lost all his hair, and was ashamed to show it.

The boy, of course, had grown since the pair of them had strode through town, into the bank, asking for a small house, and requesting upon sight the tiny shack on the cliff. He was a young man now, or at least, was growing into one. Already tall and lean, his face had thinned, making him seem less like a little child and more like a man. His eyes still held that haunted, melancholy look, and all the girls in town gossiped about its origin.

Little did they know, they had criminals and a murderer in their midst.

* * *

Toby grips the cleaver, licking his lips in concentration, raising it high over his head and bringing it down with a heavy thwack into the large slab of beef, pleased to see he's cleared the bone all the way through to the cutting board.

Wiping his hands on his blood-stained apron, he takes the slab he's cut and places it on a hanging hook above his head for display, and then scoots the rest of the meat to one side of the board, heading for the back room to fetch some pork, when he hears the tiny jingle of the bell in the door, and he straightens, clearing his throat importantly and straightening his butcher boy's cap.

"Mornin'. How may I 'elp you, then? We 'ave some freshly cut beef, 'angin' up right 'ere, and--"

"--Toby," this customer whispers, and he is instantly taken backwards in time, to five years previous, when he had sat next to her, eating a toffee, watching with interest as she sewed his shirt back together after he'd ripped it on a protruding nail in an alleyway fence.

He laughs, a choked thing, like coughing up water.

"Hullo, mum," he whispers, unlocking the latch on the counter's swinging section and ducking underneath to reach her and hug her tightly.

Mrs. Lovett also laughs, but her own voice is dripping with wistfulness. It is evident they both know why she's here.

Pulling back, Toby gestures to the back room.

"There's a little kitchen, in th' back. The owner, 'e lives in the rooms above, but the dining area is down 'ere...We can talk there, if you'd like."

She nods and says she'd like this, so he turns the sign in the window so that it reads 'closed', and he leads her into the small, starched white kitchen. Outside, through the back door is a yard with a garden, and beyond that, the meat-house, where Toby's employer is probably slicing up another animal. Pushing these thoughts away, he pulls out her chair, like a gentleman should and they sit.

"D'you want anything to drink, mum, or...?"

"I'm fine," she whispers again, regaining her posture, straightening in her chair and folding her hands neatly in front of her on the small table.

"Well," he starts, pulling off his cap to reveal his white hair, running a hand through it, "You're 'ere for a reason, I suppose."

"You suppose correctly," she replies, ice drifting into her tone.

"And that purpose would be...?"

He wants to hear her say it, to hear it come from her lips, and then, he'll know it to be the truth. Good or not, he wants to hear the truth from her.

"To ask you a question, Tobias."

Frowning, he leans in, eying her. It's certainly not what he suspected her to say.

"Where," she begins, lifting up her hands, palms up, towards the ceiling in a shrug, "Is Mr. Todd?"

"Ah," he says. "I thought it was somethin' to do with 'im."

He sighs, slumping back in the chair.

"Did it surprise you, when you saw me, alive, with Mr. T?"

"I dunno. I 'aven't thought about that, 'til you brought it up. I just supposed 'e needed an accomplice of sorts," she drawls.

"I'm grateful to him, you know," Toby says. "Taught me to read, 'e did. And write. 'E's taken care of me, and hasn't killed me or threatened me with beatings, or anything. 'E's changed a lot, since you last saw 'im."

She stays silent.

"Er, what did you want to ask, again?"

"Where is he? Where's Mr. Todd?" She asks again, a cold smile on her lips. He can tell she won't be the same, and can't be the same until this is done and over.

She can't really answer any of his questions, until she's finished with this matter.

He nods in consent.

"He's up at th' house. Just follow this road, and you'll see a pathway towards the beach. Go on it, and it'll take you right to it. S' the only house on the cliff, you can't miss it."

Standing, she reaches over and pats his head.

"Why'd you tell me this?"

He smiles weakly.

"Well, how else is he gonna be able to see you again?"

He watches her leave the shop, pondering this, until she's gone from his view, and he has to switch the sign again, to read 'open' and continue with his work.

AN: I know it's short, but the next chapter is the very last, and I think it's long...It feels long, when I re-read it, heh.

Go right onto chapter thirteen! Do not pass go, do not collect $200.


	13. XIII: Lovely Wounds

**Part XII: Lovely Wounds**

Storms brew outside the window, rattling the panes in the windows of the tiny house by the sea. Salty ocean winds whip sand about, in clouds, stinging a person's bare legs and face, piercing through one's clothes.

The grey cottage sits atop a small grassy hill right on the beach, about a hundred feet away from the crashing waves. Its small porch and tiny two-story structure is just how she's always dreamed, always pictured.

It is as if he has chosen this place to mock her.

Upstairs, there is only one solitary oil lamp lit in the left window, and inside, she sees no-one.

Downstairs, there are lamps lit in each of the squares of glass, tiny spots of golden light in the stormy darkness of the evening.

The house itself looks to be in bad shape, with peeling paint on its shingles, and a rickety looking front stoop, complete with those beachside wicker chairs. Just the sight conjures up pleasant images of colorful skies and lovely bright furniture, and Eleanor is not so blind that she does not see the humour in how Sweeney Todd has warped even her most secret fantasy, taking her perfectly pleasant dream and infecting it with somber greys and blues, a cold climate and a general state of disrepair.

By the sea...Certainly not what she imagined, though the irony is enough to make her smile sardonically.

Mrs. Lovett followed the wooden planks that made a walkway from town to the ocean's edge, as Toby instructed her to, in silent contemplation. The wind is fierce, now that she is so close to the waves, and she feels spray hit her face as she stands at the end of the pathway, looking into the distance at her final destination.

End of the line.

This is where it will be over, and she can live again...

Reaching into her coat, she pulls out the pistol she stole from the Beadle, and grips it tightly in one hand. Her boots make soft noises in the sand as she leaves the walkway, like fabric against fabric.

The porch is old and creaky, almost too wobbly to walk upon, and she treads very lightly, for fear of both falling into the space a plank will leave behind for her when it finally gives in, and for fear of being discovered. She has nothing but an element of surprise.

The door has a tiny bronze mail slot, that reads "POST", and with a twinge of shame and anger, she remembers in her fantasies, the house did have such a slot as this one. Her finger runs over it briefly, and she is lost in thought for a second before glancing at the door once, twice, then taking a few steps backward, she hurls herself forward, and her foot collides hard with the door.

There's the crash and snap of it breaking on its rusty hinges, falling to the floor with a thump that's muffled by the carpet underfoot, a moth-eaten thing that lets out a sigh of dust as the heavy wooden door falls upon it. Nellie winces.

_So much for surprise. Though that was incredibly satisfying._

The doorway opens into a small, narrow hallway, which has a green and red striped wallpaper she's imagined so many times in her dreams, and a line of shoes at the door, neatly arranged, ready and waiting for their owners. A woman's shoes sit neatly nearby, slightly separate from the other pairs, as if in protest.

A coat rack holds a grey jacket, a familiar thing she recalls him wearing often, and most notably, when they danced together in her shop, rejoicing over the brilliance of their plan. There's a white apron hung there too, undoubtedly Toby's, and an unidentified violet coat and feathered hat that peaks her suspicion and jealousy..

If he has some sort of woman here...She's killing her too, whoever she is.

Shifting her hold on the gun, she pulls out her knife and clutches this in her other hand, advancing down the hallway, brandishing both weapons. At the end of the corridor, there is a flight of stairs immediately in front of her, a dining room to her right, and a lighted area to her left.

_Ah ha._

She half-runs the rest of the length of the hall, whirling about lighting fast, to face the doorway that the golden light is flooding out of.

Her feet carry her to the left, and--

She lets out a gasp, turning at angle to come face to face with none other than...

And, whipping round, holding the gun and blade, she comes face to face with Sweeney Todd.

He has an expression of bored curiosity, eying the pistol that is inches from his nose with an air of disinterest. Dark eyes glitter and dance like the flame in a fireplace, but it has been so long since she saw him up close that she no longer remembers the language and the words his eyes told her. His face seems to have become more weary, and his entire body looks different.

Was he always so thin, so ghost-like? Had he always looked so tired, or was it just her own mind playing tricks that had made him seem larger than life, strong as anything, invincible. She's so shocked, to see Sweeney Todd like this, through eyes no longer clouded by complete adoration, that she cannot find her voice. He has changed too, in all these years.

But upon turning his eyes on her, he smiles that familiar smile, and her heart thuds instinctively, as it always has, when he is near. She should shoot. She should shoot the gun the right now, have the blood spill across the room, and...and...but she knows she can't. That she never really will. He leans his head to the side, as if to move out of the gun's range, and addresses her.

The pistol drops with a clatter to the floor, and her heart sinks.

She knows at this moment she's never going to fire it.

"Hello, Eleanor."

The use of her first name, always ignored in the past, makes the fury boil up inside her again, and she smiles right back, brandishing the gun for emphasis as to her purpose.

"Hello...Benjamin."

He winces, scratching his head as he steps back, reaching down to pick up the gun and place it carefully in her hand, then leading her into what is a brightly painted kitchen, with a wooden table in the center, and cabinets painted a turquoise color, perhaps to mimic the ocean's hue during summer. Through another doorway is a parlor, with a chaise lounge and armchair, bookcases and a fireplace...

It is unnaturally his, obviously bearing his mark, with tiny scratch marks on the surface of the table in the kitchen, carving initials and small pictures into the wood. An odd presence follows him, making the entire area seem his, and only his.

He sits down in a chair, drumming his fingers on the sides of the tea cup. Leaning back, he seems utterly relaxed.

"Come to kill me, then?" It sounds like an accusation.

She nods, fist closing tighter over the knife, shakily. "Yes. I am." Her voice is calm and icy, determined, but inside, her stomach is a knot of tension, and doubt. Could she do it?

He nods, taking a sip of the tea, and gesturing for her to sit in the chair across from him. She stands, wary. Mr. Todd sighs, and holds up his hands.

"I assure you, I have no weapons. My razors are all in the other room, the parlor. And the knives are..." His eyes dart to a drawer near the oven, and then back. He smiles easily, so strange, to see him pleased, and alert. His mind is in this moment, this present. Slowly, she sits down, folding her hands over Edward's knife and the pistol, staring at him, trying her best to not to tremble.

She hadn't been able to do it. To kill him, while she had surprise on her side, and she curses herself, for giving into her weakness for his face and his presence. And what now, what does he plan to do...? What could she do now?

He clears his throat, and stares at her for a moment.

"You have changed, Eleanor."

The use of her name again, stabbing her; he never called her that, five years ago, but...when he was married, and his face had been bright, he had said her name like it was something sacred. At least, she had always thought so. Gritting her teeth, Mrs. Lovett shrugs.

"So have you. Must you call me that...?"

"It's your name," he snaps back, grabbing a spoon on the table, and stirring his drink. The little clinking noises the utensil makes against the china inside of the cup grates her nerves. His eyes, icy, never leave her, as if he's trying to see through her, to what she's thinking. It used to be he always seemed to know what she was thinking.

Forgetting her weapons, she folds her arms, slumping in her seat. "You never called me that, before...before..."

"...before I killed you."

"You didn't kill me," she protests, unbuttoning the first buttons of her dress collar, pulling it back to show him the scars on her neck and shoulder. He exhales, drawn to the proof of his violence, one hand on the table restrained, as if he longs to reach out and touch the marks on her skin. She glares at him. "You did a right good job trying, I s'pose. I'll give you that."

He laughs quietly. "Yes...I mean, thank you. I wanted you to be in pain. The way I had been in pain.

"I was. I still am, at least, emotionally."

"Well, then, I succeeded, didn't I? I'd wager you're here to kill me, to get rid of that." Sweeney Todd licks his lips quickly, before resuming his position of complete stillness.

"You wager correctly, Benjamin Barker," she answers, but she's not so sure of that anymore, herself. As if he reads her doubt, a chuckle comes up from his throat, and he shakes his head.

"Well, it appears to me that you're still sorting that out. Even after all this. Killing the Beadle, surviving that fool Anthony's little attempt on your life...And keeping the demons at bay all the while. You certainly handled things better than I do, Eleanor. Look what's become of me."

She looks, and sees a man who's been beaten and driven to murder by the ghosts and nightmares that she now knows all too well. He's tired, eyes darkened around their edges by a lack of sleep, and she's sure he has his share of scars as well. His wounds go as deep as hers, possibly deeper. She looks down at her hands, and says nothing.

"But enough of speaking of myself. We haven't spoken in five years, although your little tantrum at the inn in Venice was quite touching. But, seeing as how I did not really converse with you then...We'll let that incident slide by us, for now. So..."

He tilts his chair back until it's on only two of its four legs, and his left shoulder comes upwards to his head, as if he's going to pull something out of his pocket and--

She pushes away from the wooden table, chair screeching on the unvarnished floor, but it's not fast enough, and her arm explodes with pain. Casting her eyes down, expecting the worst, she's surprised to find only a thin needle protruding from the bare skin of her upper arm. Alarms going off, Mrs. Lovett stares at him, furious.

"What--what the bloody hell did you just shoot me with?!"

He leans forward, bringing his chair back down to the ground, eying the needle with interest.

"It's laced with truth serum. I rebuilt the pistol to fire 'em. Quite fancy, eh? It's my favorite invention of mine. You may wonder why I shot that into your arm and I will tell you-- Don't touch it, it needs to set in!"

She lets her hand fall, wincing at the stinging sensation, but telling herself that she has felt worse is a small comfort, though not necessarily the most uplifting thought. The needle remains.

"As I was saying...It is a truth serum, quite effective with none of the usual side-effects...Although..." He pauses, glancing her way in curiosity. "You may feel a slight sense of euphoria."

"Euphoria...?" she murmurs. "No."

He gives a nonchalant shrug, and sighs. "That is unfortunate." His face suddenly becomes serious.

"Now. When it comes to you – and _us_ – I have a few unanswered questions. So before this tale of bloody revenge reaches its climax, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth. "

His fist clenches on the table, almost as if the subject of honesty, when concerning her, is detestable and painful.

"But therein lies the dilemma!—For, when it comes to the subject of you, I believe you to be _truly and utterly_ incapable of telling the truth – especially to me, and – least of all to yourself. And, when it comes to the subject of me, I am – _truly and utterly_ incapable – of believing anything you say."

And at this, her head drops, looking away, to anywhere but him. She feels a sudden wave of helplessness pass over her; she is trapped now. Still refusing to meet his gaze, she whispers:

"How d'you propose we solve this, then?"

Cracking his knuckles, Mr. Todd ponders this. "I will ask you my questions. And then, if you would like, you may ask me anything you wish. And then...if you so desire, we will have a fight to the death, or whatever it is you call it."

The thought of fighting him seems silly now, ridiculous. She only nods quickly in consent, and hears him shift, gathering himself for what is to come. She thinks she might cry, or become sick. Perhaps both.

"So..." he begins, fingering the cuff of his shirt, "Is it true that you loved me, before?"

She doesn't need to hesitate. "Yes. Since about the first moment you came in to rent the room over the shop."

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly, not quite a frown or a smile. His eyes suddenly are alight, blazing, and something about this comforts her.

"Very well." He pauses, then continues. "Did you truly believe, with all of your heart, that I would return such a love?"

Mrs. Lovett bites her lip, trembling, mind screaming a different answer, but her lips betray her anyways.

"N-n-no..." she mutters. Tears begin to form in her eyes, and she breaths in deeply, forcing the feeling away. She will not cry in front of him, she cannot cry in front of him...

He watches her placidly, expression remaining the same.

"And even now...now that I have made such a great attempt upon your life, and you've gone through so much, because of me...Do you still love me?"

She suddenly looks up, now freely crying, and her mouth twists, half way between a sad smile and a thin lipped frown. Her voice is shaky, and her breathing is shallow.

"Y-y-yes."

At this, his customary look of annoyance and distaste forms on his features (the one he always reserved for her, when she came too close or lingered too long). He clears his throat, and the expression vanishes, replaced with a face of neutral calm.

"I was simply warming up." He says, and his voice is completely void of any emotion. "Now for the ten thousand pound question."

She watches him, steeling herself for this, whatever it is.

"Why," he chokes, voice pained and hoarse, "Did you lie to me? You have admitted to loving me. So why would you deceive me, knowingly betray me...?"

He has broken his facade of stone; it's clear he's just as pained to be in this position as she is. And this alone surprises her. He really has changed.

Eleanor's gaze falls to a picture frame on the wall, of a lovely Johanna in a white wedding dress, next to a handsome Anthony, dressed in a finely pressed suit. She looks at the gun, sitting on the table.

"I can't lie, and say I did it for you. To protect you, from the pain of seein' Lucy like that, all addled in the head. I did do it, because of that, but...I loved you, and I had waited so long...She was as good as dead, and I wanted you to love me. I thought if you didn't know...I could be with you. B-but...I did love you, a-and isn't part of loving someone protecting them from getting hurt? I want...I like to believe I did it for you, to protect you, but...I did it mostly out of my own selfishness, I think."

She does not look away from his face, and he seems so far away from this place in time, so lost in thought she almost wants to ask if he was listening at all.

He reaches for his tea, and takes a sip.

"I see. That's very naive of you. Foolish, almost. And most certainly...selfish. I cannot say I can ever forgive you. But then again, you probably cannot say you could ever forgive me, despite your saying you love me..."

Her heart thumps insistently, and she sighs. "I dunno anymore, Mr. Todd. I really don't."

He seems to understand, nodding slowly as he stands from his seat, beginning to pace, boots thumping familiarly on the floorboards. It's almost like nothing has changed.

But she knows that everything is different. How could she possibly think that they could go back to what they were...? And even if it were possible, it's not as if they were anything to begin with.

He turns quickly, striding back to the table.

"You have done a lot, to get here. You killed the Beadle, I heard."

"The chandelier was fallin' anyway. I was only helpin' it along some. S'not like he could run fast enough to avoid it crushing his slimy little body."

He whistles. "How pleasant...You've been on quite an adventure, if one can call it that."

She can't think of anything to say. He suddenly stops walking, standing in front of his chair, gripping its wooden back. His eyes are downcast, a look of confusion on his face.

"You've come all this way...So, why haven't you killed me yet, Mrs. Lovett? Is it because you love me, still?"

She stands, leaving the gun where it lies on the table, hands on her hips.

"I said before...I dunno what to think about this. About us. I do 'ave one question, for you. You said I can ask whatever I like, once you're finished."

He gestures with his hand for her to go ahead. They're only about four feet away from one another now.

"I don't suppose you regret killing me?"

He laughs, shaking his head, a strand of hair falling in his eyes. "No. At the instant I stabbed you...I did not regret it in the slightest."

Her stomach sinks lower, and despite herself, she can almost feel her heart breaking.

"But," he continues, and his voice is soft. "I do not think I considered what I had done to myself."

Mrs. Lovett's head jerks up, staring now as he traces a circle in the wood of the kitchen table, looking almost...

Lonely.

Sweeney Todd's eyes fall upon her, and they lock gazes for the first time since she pointed a pistol in his face. Her face flushes, and she loves him then, even more than she ever did before.

"I began to realize that...despite the irritating qualities...you have an air about you, that..."

He pauses, struggling to find words.

"Once I killed the Judge...I had nothing more to do. And I thought quite a bit, on what happened. You were right; it would have hurt me, to see my wife again, in such a state...It does not forgive your actions, or mine, but I want you to know that it would have hurt me, perhaps as much as the knowledge she was dead. But I also thought on my sins. I've killed...And I think nothing of it. I murdered my wife, I've lied and cheated and schemed as much as you, and I went and hurt the only woman who could have forgiven me for all of it...And yet, you still say you love me? How can you love a demon? You've said you loved me when I was Benjamin Barker."

He steps toward her, and she rises from her own chair.

"I cannot associate myself with such a man as him. I'm not anything like Benjamin Barker. How could anyone love such a man as Sweeney Todd?"

She walks to him, smiling. "I don't care about that. You're you, and it's not like I can help myself. I've been in love with you for so long, it's not as if I can just stop, can I? I think I'm only realizin' that now. I never really managed to stop bein' in love with you."

Another step. "Foolish woman. I'll be the death of you."

"Silly man. You are already were."

They suddenly collide, standing now, toe to toe, and she reaches upward, brushing the stray hair away from his face, and resting her hand lightly on his shoulder. Sweeney Todd eyes her, then runs a finger along the scar on her throat.

_"Mrs. Lovett...You're a bloody wonder, eminently practical and yet, appropriate as always...Mrs. Lovett, how I lived without you all these years, I'll never know..."_

She cannot help but beam at him. An intense feeling of being home fills Mrs. Lovett, warming her skin, and filling her with an odd sense of bitter happiness.

He might not love her. But she hardly thinks it matter anymore, for he feels something, and that is more than he felt before. His hand runs down to her waist, resting on the small of her back, possessive, and at the same time, tender.

They have been away a long time.

She takes his face in her hands, and kisses him. His lips are warm underneath hers, and she feels him chuckle at the absurdity of it all; they are quite the pair. Pulling her closer to him, he kisses her back, with all the fierceness she expects from a man such as her Sweeney Todd, and she loves him.

They are two horrible people, through and through, murderers and liars and crooks. They hate and they cheat, but they are human, and they love. His body is warm against hers, and he adores the way she looks at him, now that he sees her, no longer distracted by thoughts of vengeance. She will follow him, no matter what, and this is what matters to him now.

Outside, there's a vicious wind blowing against the window panes, and the ocean is icy cold. Spray from the waves is hurled into the air like stardust, and sand stings just as much as a knife.

But inside, they are two people, and they are warm, and they are happy at last. Content, and free from those ghosts they are plagued by. And even if they aren't, they can share their scars, their pain, and their nightmares.

It is all that counts, in the end.

**"Let me wrap myself around you, let me show you how I see, and when you come back in from nowhere, do you ever think of me? **

**When your heart is not able, let me show you how much I care.**

**I need those eyes to tide me over...take your picture when I go. Gives me strength and gives me patience, but I'll never let you know...**

**I've got nothing on you, baby, but I always said I'd try.**

**Let me show you how much I care.**

**But sometimes it gets hard and don't she know...**

**Don't give the ghost up, just clench your fist; you should've known by now:**

**you were on my list.**

**When your heart is not able, and your prayers, they're not fables.**

**Let me show you**

**Let me show you**

**Let me show how much I care."**

--- My List by The Killers

_**FIN

* * *

**_

AN: And that, my friends, is the end of this little story.

I wrote this pretty early on, actually, when I had submitted the third chapter. I always had the intention of ending it either with her killing him...

Or this.

I personally think this ending is much more fitting, especially since I'm a hardcore Todd/Lovett fan. C'mon guys, you must have seen this coming.

I tried my best to show that Mrs. Lovett loves Sweeney Todd/Benjamin Barker no matter what, but it is that she would love him now, unconditionally, that makes Sweeney start to love her back. I think he's afraid that Lucy wouldn't love him as Mr.Todd, and he takes comfort in the knowledge that Mrs. Lovett would, one hundred percent (even if she didn't really know it until now).

I may or may not post the "alternate ending" of this story, which follows the actual ending of Kill Bill.

I hope you enjoyed it.

I loved writing this story, perhaps because it allowed me to humorous and dramatic and sad and romantic. I like that a lot.

A hundred billion thanks to all my reviewers, supporters, watchers and subscribers. Even if you didn't do any of that, if you're reading this, and you've read all the way through, I thank you. Your support means everything to me, and it's what has motivated me to come this far.

So, merci beaucoup! Muchas gracias! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Thanks especially to: **smashing, Lady Charity, Sanguinary Tears, xlawa, Pebbles1234, Vintage Writer, niki-chan2, and Princess Moogle.**

Your reviews throughout this story (I actually went back and checked; you all reviewing every single chapter! Whoa!) have encouraged me, entertained me, and definitely motivated me to continue this. So, thank you so much for all your extra support. :D

See you all again, for the epilogue story, which is titled** "Palettes"**.

Until then, zenstereo is going to go crawl in a hole and sleep for three days.


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